


Acceptable Risks

by everywordnotsaid



Category: The Brave (TV 2017)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Team as Family, angst for all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-03-14 14:30:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13592067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everywordnotsaid/pseuds/everywordnotsaid
Summary: They’re a team, and being a team means you don’t leave anyone behind. They’re also soldiers though, and that means sometimes you have to. Or, the team makes a difficult decision and spends a long time regretting it.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I realized as I started writing this that it's basically just a big fat Amir character study from every characters perspective except Amir's. Whoops.

It’s hot, too hot. The concrete floor of the parking garage Dalton’s laying in is nearly baking in the mid day sun, burning his bare skin wherever it touches. Even with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up as far as they’ll go he’s still sweating like a pig, and his heavy plated TAC vest doesn’t help. Tunisia in the middle of August is unpleasant, to say the least. Cloudless sky, no wind, and temperatures pushing 100°F do not for a happy Dalton make, especially not after lying motionless in a veritable oven for nearly 45 minutes. He can’t imagine the rest of the team feels much better. McG had been especially…vocal… about his dissatisfaction. Squashing a grin he shifts a little, scuttling closer to the lip of the crumbling structure, peering through the scope of his rifle down at where Amir stands waiting under the glaring Tunisian sun.

He looks relatively unaffected by the heat, his light cotton shirt hanging loosely on his slight frame. Dalton’s almost jealous, almost. He’d rather sweat a little then lose his vest though, or the Sig on his belt and M16 in his hands. If Amir feels the same he doesn’t show it, crossing his arms nonchalantly as he glances around the empty sandy street like he’s waiting for an uber. Sometimes Dalton forgets that for all Amir’s new to their little team he’s anything but new to the game. Three years undercover with ISIS, infiltrating over a dozen different terrorist cells, minimal contact with his handler or any friendlies. Sometimes Dalton wonders what exactly Amir saw in those three years. Part of him wants to know, the other part desperately doesn’t.

  
Dalton’s a pack animal, down to his very core. He likes his team, likes knowing that if he goes down in the field somebody will be there to drag him out, likes the solidarity that forms from that sort of trust. Like right now, for example. Amir might look alone but he’s got four sets of eyes staring down their scopes at him, four people who have his back if things go to shit. That, to Dalton, is how it should work. That’s what makes sense to him.

Amir, though, he’s a more solitary creature. It makes sense of course, considering his background. Undercover work like that, trusting people just gets you killed fast and messy. No, in that situation it’s better to trust no one but yourself, it’s probably why Amir’s survived as long as he has. Still, Dalton can’t imagine what that feels like, the kind of loneliness that must breed in someone. To live every day looking over your shoulder, just waiting for the moment it all comes falling down around your ears and knowing that when it does there is no one coming to rescue you. It sends a shiver down his back, even in the heat. Shaking it off he refocuses himself, blinking away the sweat that threatens to drip into his eyes. Now’s not the time to get distracted.

Currently they’re all waiting on Youssef Jebali. Tunisian born and raised he’d left his homeland three years ago to answer the call of Jihad. Since then he’d seen action in both Syria and Iraq, emerging with a modest reputation among the right circles. Last year he’d returned to Tunisia along with a few hundred fellow radicalized ISIS foot soldiers and since then had been hard at work sowing dissent and destruction across the tiny country. There were even a few chatters here and there that linked him to the Bardo museum attacks that had left 22 people dead, mostly foreign tourists. Since then he’d lain low for the most part, slowly drifting off the US intelligence radar until two days ago when his name had popped up in a report detailing a meet with a Nigerian arms dealer the CIA was monitoring, Okonde Adeyemi. Intel posited that Jebali was planning something. Something big. With recent losses in Syria and Iraq and ISIS’s slow but steady retreat into North Africa apparently the local cells needed a little bit of morale building, and Youssef Jebali was more then willing to provide.

The Tunisians had requested U.S. assistance, and of course the DIA had turned to it’s one special ops team that had a member with deep-cover ISIS contacts in its ranks. They had asked and Amir, of course, had answered, with the same unflinching determination as he had met the phone call that had led them to Paris a few months ago. He still remembers the look in Amir’s eyes when he’d asked him if he wanted to go back under, the fire that burned there dark and smoldering and so angry. _What’s the alternative,_ he’d said voice flat and strained, _we do nothing and hope people don’t die?_ He’d walked away then, towel still slung over his shoulder and muscles of his neck tight and corded. Dalton had watched him go and for the first time he’d seen the still waters of Amir Al-Raisani stirred, and in that moment he’d understood how the man had survived three years undercover with one of the deadliest terror organizations in the world

The meet was scheduled in Ben Gardane, a small coastal city with a population that barely scratched 80,000 (if you were generous) 20 miles from the Libyan border. It’s biggest claims to fame were the local populace of camels and the highest per capita rate of defection to terrorist organizations in the world. Quite the vacation spot. It might have almost been beautiful, in a worn and barren sort of way, if Dalton hadn’t been so focused on the impending contact. So here they were, baking slowly in the relentless desert heat while Amir stood defenseless and vulnerable in the street below waiting for Jebali to arrive.

Dalton glances away from Amir to look down at his watch. It’s pushing one o’clock now, and the meeting was supposed to be at half past noon. He’d really appreciate if Jebali showed so they could get the intel and get the hell out of here because he’s dying for a burger and a cold beer. As if on cue Jaz’s voice crackles to life in his ear.

“You know, somebody really should talk to these guys about the importance of punctuality.”

“I don’t know if you should be the one talking about punctuality Jaz, you wouldn't know on time if it bit you in the ass.”

McG quips, a second later there’s the sound of a muffled grunt as Jaz retaliates.

“Hey McG, your proctologist called me. He said he found your head, you might want to start using it.”

She snipes back, but there’s no sting to her words and Dalton smirks as McG makes an offended noise.

“A wise man once said two of our most powerful weapons are patience and time.”

Preach says placidly, adding his two cents to the conversation. McG groans and Dalton can almost picture him rolling his eyes in exasperation.

“Oh come on man, really? I mean what does that even mean?”

Dalton lets them bicker lightly; he knows they’re just feeling restless. They can wait for hours, for days if need be. They’ve done it before, and he's sure they'll do it again, but they don’t mean they have to like it. His team has always been better at action then standing still. He sympathizes, the waiting’s starting to drag on him too. He can’t imagine what Amir must be thinking or feeling down there, completely exposed on the street. He hadn’t even let Jaz slip him his ka-bar, no matter how much she’d protested he shouldn’t go in completely unarmed. Dalton’s almost wishing he’d made him take it now. It'd make him feel a lot better to know Amir had some way of protecting himself, even if it was just a knife. 

Eventually the gentle back and forth exchange dies out leaving nothing but soft static behind. The minutes drag by; sun slowly making it’s way across the blindingly blue sky ever westward. Dalton swears it gets hotter, if that’s even possible. His muscles are starting to cramp from inactivity and his throat is dry. Below Amir still waits, arms still folded over his chest and face inscrutable.

It’s the second time since he’s joined their team that he’s played Hamid Khedani. Dalton wonders if it’s easy for him to slip back into the identity, like putting on an old suit that stills fits, or if it just brings back uncomfortable memories. It seems almost unfair, to ask this of him again. The first time had been driven by desperation and unresolved issues, that much is clear, and there hadn’t been time in the moment to think about it. Now though, Amir had left his days as a spy behind for whatever reason; Amir hasn’t offered one and Dalton hasn’t asked. Joined a different kind of fight, left the ghosts of his past in the past. Should they really be forcing him to dredge them back up? There are other ways of getting the information they need, perhaps less efficient but certainly just as effective. Ghosts have a nasty habit of catching up to you though, Dalton knows, and Amir had been given a choice and said yes to it. Still, he’s curious as to what actually lies behind Amir’s carefully blank face right now. He’s well aware that they see what Amir wants them to see. Underneath the quiet awkwardness the man might as well be a brick wall emotionally. Dalton likes to think he’ll open up to them eventually, with enough time even brick walls have to crumble.

 

* * *

 

Preach carefully adjusts the settings on his laser mike, tilting it a few degrees to the left so the beam can reflect off the cracked pane of a window set on the face of a building Amir is standing near. It’s not a perfect set-up, the window isn’t perfectly smooth, Amir’s standing a little far from the surface the mike’s reflecting off, and they’re out in the open which degrades the quality of the audio by half all on it’s own. In the end he’ll be lucky to pick anything up at all. Still, he does the best he can with what he has. It’s what they’re built for, making do in bad situations. Besides, Amir’s depending on him. He’s running with no comms or wires, so Preach and his microphone are his last resort if he needs to communicate with the rest of the team. It’s a heavy burden to carry, so Preach tilts by degrees and fiddles with the settings just that little bit more. He’ll be damned if the reason his teammate goes down is because he didn’t do his best.

Satisfied that the mike is as good as it’s going to get he leans back, wiping the back of his arm across his forehead and taking a sip of water from his Camelback. He’s tucked into a squat derelict building along an alleyway that connects to the street corner Amir’s currently waiting on. The beat up SUV they ‘requisitioned’ (which just means Preach hotwired it while the rest of the team kept watch) once they got into Ben Gardane sits behind him, parked in the dark shadows of the alley. From his position all he can see is Amir’s narrow back through the open window in front of him. There used to be glass, but it’s long since been shattered leaving nothing behind but a few jagged shards sticking up from the sill. The air inside the building is warm and still, hazy with motes of dust illuminated by the diffuse sunlight that filters through the cracks.

Outside Amir shifts his weight from one foot to the other, head moving back and forth as he scans the street. There are dark stains of sweat around the neck of his shirt and down the V of his back and the skin of his neck glistens in the sunlight. Preach watches as he settles himself, stilling his movement till he could be a statue, watches the steady rise and fall of his shoulders as he breaths, slow and even and deep.

He wonders if he’s praying. Preach is not a particularly religious man-he’s far too pragmatic for that- but he meant what he said back in Syria on their first mission together. About believing in something greater. He had meant it then and he still means it now. Maybe he doesn’t believe but Amir still does after everything that he’s been through and there’s something good to that, something pure to that sort of faith. It’s for things like that that Preach fights, for the good things in the world. It’s what he holds close to him every time he pulls the trigger, what he thinks of when he hugs his daughter’s goodnight. It’s the reason he’s still in this game when it means spending months apart from his family and home with a better then even chance of never seeing them again.

Once Preach stumbled upon Amir praying back at base in Incirlik. It had been early, maybe six or so, and the rest of the team were still in their bunks after a rough op. He had sat quietly on the picnic bench out front and watched as Amir finished his morning prayers, turning his head left then right and saying something in Arabic before standing. After he’d carefully folded his prayer rug he’d joined Preach on the bench. Preach had asked him what he’d said. Amir had smiled softly, closing his eyes against the rising sun.

“ _Qad alsalam ealaykum warahmat allah maeakum 'aydaan_. It means, may the peace and mercy of Allah be with you too.” He’d replied. “I say this to the angels who will record both my good and bad deeds on my left and right shoulders. It is how you end your time of salah.”

Preach had nodded and they’d watched the sun rise together without speaking. After that it had become a regular occurrence. Preach would wander out in the morning and wait for Amir to finish his prayers and then they would sit together, drinking coffee or the strong minty tea Amir liked. Sometimes they’d talk, sometimes they would simply sit in silence and enjoy the tranquility of the daybreak before the base began to rise from its slumber and the hush of dawn fell away.

When they did talk they’d talk about anything or about nothing at all, from how Preach’s daughters were doing in school too Amir’s life growing up in Lebanon. They don’t talk about family, though, Preach had learned this early on. Once he’d asked if Amir had any siblings. The other man's face had twisted and darkened, a weary sadness flashing in his eyes before he’d looked away and changed the subject. Preach had never brought up siblings again.

When Preach asks Amir tells him about his prayers. About _fajr_ and _zuhr_ and _asr_ and _maghrib_ and _isha_. How his first prayer begins at _subh saadiq_ -or true dawn-and his last begins at _fajr sadiq_ when the red light is gone from the western sky. He thinks the most unguarded he’s ever seen Amir is when he explains his faith to Preach. That’s when the walls fall away and for a little bit Preach feels he truly sees Amir the man, not Amir the soldier or the spy. Once he had asked him why he prayed. Amir had just shrugged.

“Why does anyone? I pray for the same reasons that Christians or Catholics or Jews pray: to become closer to my God, to find guidance when I have lost my way.”

When Preach had just watched him silently, waiting, he’d continued.

“I guess…for me prayer is a way to center myself, it give me balance between here-and here.” He had said, touching two fingers to his forehead and then to his heart. “It brings me peace.”

The words had stuck with Preach long after the conversation had ended, and he ponders them now as he eyes Amir’s still form. Is he at peace right now? Standing here and waiting for a very dangerous man, wearing the skin of a past that must bring him pain peace seems a difficult thing to achieve. Watching Amir though, Preach sees no indication of anything else. He admires that about his teammate, that ability to let everything else fall away, to live entirely in the present without thought to the past or future. Perhaps this is also why he prays, this is the strength his faith gives him.

Dalton’s voice brings him back to moment and Preach shelves his philosophical musings for another time.

“Alright everyone, eyes up, looks like our guy finally decided to show.”

And just like that, the wait is over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ben Gardane's a real town in Tunisia, and yes, it is actually known for it's local population of dromedaries. Go figure.
> 
> Five daily prayers:  
> fajr - dawn to sunrise  
> zuhr - true noon  
> asr - afternoon  
> maghreb - sunset to dusk  
> isha - dusk until dawn


	2. Chapter Two

Another half an hour passes slowly and there’s still no sign of Jebali. Dalton sighs, shaking his head and reaching for his comm, ready to pull the plug on the op. Just as he opens his mouth to say the words though there’s a puff of dust and sand on the horizon and he catches the faint hum of an engine echoing from a distance. As if summoned by the promise of action a faint sea breeze whispers through the still air, bringing with it the smell of salt and gasoline. Amir’s loose tunic flutters in the wind, pale brown fabric twisting and folding. He straightens, one arm reaching up to shield his eyes as he squints against the sun. Dalton, taps his comms, getting the team’s attention.

“Alright everyone, eyes up, looks like our guy finally decided to show.”

He can’t see any of them but he can almost feel the atmosphere settle and sharpen as his team focuses in and he feels a familiar swell of pride. This, this is what they’re built for.

“Remember, be ready but don’t engage unless Amir signals or I say so. A lot of people could die if we don’t get this intel so we gotta trust him to do his thing. All goes well, we’ll be back home in time for dinner.”

There’s a chorus of assent from the team, and Dalton settles in, flipping the safety off his rifle. He spares a moment to glance back to Amir whose standing impassively, one hand still cupped at his forehead, shading his eyes. It’s strange, even from almost 50 meters and three stories he can still see the moment Amir Al-Raisani disappears and Hamid Khedani takes his place. It’s subtle, in the slope of his shoulders, the tilt of his chin; they way his eyes harden and cool even beneath the glare of the sun. There’s something almost predatory in the way he holds himself, violence barely hidden under the skin. He looks like a dangerous man. The change is palpable, and it raises the hairs on the back of Dalton’s neck.

Below, the cloud of dust resolves into two dirty tan jeeps with tinted windows and Dalton shifts his attention towards the vehicles. They pull up in front of Amir, grinding to a halt in a wide V-shape around him. Blocking quick exit to the main road, Dalton notes carefully, adding the observation to his assessment of the situation. It doesn’t mean that they suspect anything, but it means they’re prepared if they do.

“McG and I have two tangoes getting out of the right-hand jeep. Both armed, look’s like AK-47’s. ”

Jaz rattles off from her position on the roof of a two-story building directly across from Dalton. On his own side 4 men emerge from the other car, fanning out into loose semi-circle around the two vehicles. A younger man in worn fatigues with a dusty scarf around his neck steps towards Amir, inclining his head respectfully and Amir does the same. Dalton recognizes his face from their intelligence briefings.

“I’ve got eyes on Jebali.”

He whispers, comms adding static to his voice that echoes in his ears. He keeps his eyes on the target. The man doesn’t appear armed, but the others are all carrying AK’s in their hands. So far they’re all pointed at the ground but Dalton knows that can change in a second. Amir says something. Dalton’s to far to hear what it is but from the smile that forms on Jebali’s face he likes it. Amir smiles back, posture relaxed and open, inviting Jebali into his space like an old friend as they shake hands, Jebali reaching out to pat Amir’s arm. Amir’s shoulder tightens at the contact slightly; so subtle it might have simply been a trick of the sun and sand. It’s only there for a fraction of a second and then Dalton blinks and it’s gone.

They look very similar, the two of them. Same slight wiry build, same approximate age, same dark curls and scruffy beard. It’s a little disconcerting, if Dalton’s honest with himself. Both men so similar, and yet so strikingly different. Dalton will never understand what creates men like Jebali. What makes someone leave everything behind to go fight and kill and destroy for no purpose other then a meaningless jihad against a world that will never bow their demands? Dalton had read his file, Jebali came from an average middle class background, his mother and father had an average marriage and never divorced. He went to a average university and got a goddamn chemistry degree and a job working for a pharmaceutical company and then out of nowhere dropped it all to go join a terrorist group. It makes him angry, if he’s honest. Amir had been faced with tragedy and he had taken the anger and pain and guilt that came with it and turned it into something good, turned it into something that helped other people. Jebali had every opportunity in the world and turned away from them all.

Below, Amir and Jebali are still talking. The rest of the men stand idly by, eyes scanning the surrounding buildings. Dalton’s not worried, his teams too good to be spotted. Everyone’s seemingly at ease, one man pulls out a pack of cigarettes and starts to smoke. All in all, it seems to be going well.

“Preach,” Dalton asks quietly, “You picking anything up?”

There’s a second of delay.

“Too much ambience. I’m only getting a few words here and there. Nothing useful.”

Dalton sighs. It figures. Too bad Amir refused a bug on him; he’d really like to know what’s going on down there right now. He watches silently for another minute as they talk. Abruptly, Jebali pauses, reaching for his pocket. Behind him two of his men tense, hands going to their AK’s, fingers drifting towards triggers. If Amir’s alarmed he doesn’t show it.

“Jebali’s reaching for something, everyone be ready.”

Dalton whispers tersely, throat suddenly dry. The Tunisian’s hand emerges slowly from his jacket, something small grasped in his palm. A cellphone. He releases the breath he’s holding.

“False alarm. It’s just a phone. I repeat, false alarm, stand down.”

He bites out, finger relaxing away from the trigger of his rifle. Jebali says something apologetically to Amir who nods, before stepping a few feet way and answering the call. Dalton watches Amir carefully, trying to gauge his teammates reaction. He’s sweating now, dark marks staining the back of his shirt, and there are faint lines of tension in his shoulders but he hasn’t signaled anything’s wrong. There’s a click in his ear.

“Dalton,”

It’s Patricia’s voice. Dalton frowns. They’d agreed contact between them and the DIA on this one would be minimal except for emergencies. She sounds…not afraid, because he’s learned there are very few things Patricia Campbell’s afraid of, but certainly strained. It makes Dalton nervous.

“Go ahead.”

He replies, scooting back a little from the lip of the garage, trusting the team to keep watch.

“Have you made contact with Jebali?”

His frown deepens.

“Yeah, Amir’s meeting with him right now. Is there something I should know about?”

The reply is instant.

“Dalton you need to get him out of there right now. Noah just picked up phone chatter, his cover’s blown.”

At that moment several things happen at once. From down below there’s the sound of yelling, loud enough for Dalton to hear. Some of it is Jebali’s men, but he recognizes Amir’s voice there too, speaking rapid-fire Arabic, too fast for Dalton to understand. A second later McG’s whispering loudly in his ear,

“Top, they’re pointing guns at Amir, something just happened.”

“Amir’s cover is blown, I repeat, his cover is blown. We’re pulling him out.”

He replies breathlessly as he shimmies his way back to the edge, the scene below coming into view. Amir has his hands in the airs, mouth moving swiftly. His face is calm but his entire body is taut and stiff. Jebali stands opposite him, phone still held to his ear and a suspicious look on his face.

“Do we engage?”

Jaz asks, voice cool and steady. He pauses for a second to think, just a second- a second he’s going to spend a long time regretting- and that’s when it all goes to shit.

Apparently whatever Amir had been saying isn’t enough because Jebali ends the calls, turning and barking something at the man standing beside him who immediately advances on Amir, grabbing him by the collar and starting to pull him towards the nearest jeep.

“Top, what’s our play?”

Jaz calls again, voice louder, urgency bleeding through, and it shatters the ice taking over his brain.

“If you have an angle on your side take it. Try not to hit Jebali, we need him alive.”

He says, and hopes he didn’t just hand Amir a death sentence. Two shots ring out, echoing against the empty buildings and out of the corner of his eyes Dalton sees two tangoes on the other side of the jeeps drop where they stand, blood pooling underneath their heads. Immediately there’s panic on the street as Jebali’s men dash for cover and the sound of people yelling and automatic fire splinters the air. Blocking out the distraction, his team can handle themselves; he sights down his scope at the militant who’s still hauling Amir towards the jeeps. His finger curls softly around the trigger, steady and assured as always. Just as he’s about to take the shot though the man gives Amir’s collar a particularly vicious tug and he stumbles forward, directly into Dalton’s line of fire. He stops short, cursing.

“I just lost my shot, does anybody have an angle on the tango who grabbed Amir?”

“Negative, Top. No shot. We don’t have a shot.”

Jaz says tensely.

“Nothing from my position either.”

Is the short response from Preach. He swears again. Looks down. Amir’s putting up a good fight but the guy is taller and bigger and has an AK-47 hovering dangerously close to Amir’s face. They’re only a few feet from the nearest vehicle, and Dalton knows if they get there it’s...well it’s bad. He makes a split second decision. Grabbing his M16 he slings the strap across his chest and pushes himself to his feet, staying low to avoid the stray bullets still flying haphazardly and dashes for the stairway leading down.

“Preach, I’m heading to the ground, meet me at the entrance to the garage.”

“Copy that.”

Preach says, words short and jerky and tight.

He takes the stairs two at a time, the barrel of his rifle banging painfully at his back as he runs. He’s only three levels up, it takes him maybe a minute tops to make it down but it might as well have been a year. Outside he can still hear the staccato of the AK’s, and the short concentrated bursts of an M16 as his team returns fire. He’s still sweating, he can feel it dripping off of him, sliding down his forehead and neck and under the collar of his shirt, skin slick with it. He swallows hard, keeps running. When he reaches the ground level he pauses, pressing his back up against the edge of the wide entrance to the garage slides his M16 off his shoulder into his hands. He feels better with it there.

“Preach, ETA?”

“30 seconds.”

He grimaces, fingers tightening. It’s too long. As if to confirm his fear McG cuts through the sound of gunfire and shouting and chaos.

“Amir doesn’t have 30 seconds Top, we gotta do something now or they’re gone.”

“Alright,” he says, mind desperately running through their options, “change of plans. Preach, bring the car around. Jaz, McG, cover me. I’m going out.”  
  
Before he has time to rethink what he’s about to do he take’s a deep breath and spins around the corner, settling on one knee and bringing his gun up to his chin. The street’s a mess of flying bullets and bodies; one zings past his ear and bites into concrete behind him sending a small burst of shrapnel flying in his direction. There’s a sharp pain at the nape of his neck and he feels something warm start to trickle down his back, mixing with the sweat pooling there. He ignores it though, scanning till he finds what he’s looking for. Amir’s half way into the leftmost jeep, feet still dragging at the dirt as his hands cling desperately to the doorframe. The man pushing him in pulls back the butt of his AK and brings it down hard into his stomach and his fingers slip loose. Dalton drops the guy before he can do it again. It’s too late though; someone inside starts to drag Amir the rest of the way in. Amir looks back and just before he disappears into the car his eyes meet Dalton’s, brown locking onto blue. He mouths something, lips forming the shapes of words that Dalton can’t hear. He squints, trying to make out what Amir’s saying but and then he’s pulled inside and the door slams shut behind him and the words, whatever they are, are lost.

The jeep pulls away with a screech, tires sending out of clouds of dust. Dalton follows the car with the barrel of his gun, lets lose a few short bursts that bite into the bumper and rear paneling of the trailing jeep. It doesn’t stop though, and in a few seconds it’s out of range. Just like that, Amir’s gone. There’s no time to think about what went wrong though, not when there’s still a chance of getting him back. Standing he taps his comms once, trying to even out his breathing.

“This is mortem actual, target’s mobile. They have Amir. We need eyes in the sky, now.”

Patricia’s response is quick.

“You’re in luck, there’s a drone doing routine sweeps over Libya. We’re redirecting it now, ETA three minutes.”

Three minutes. 180 seconds. It’s no time at all but it might as well be a century for all the good it does them. Three minutes is a luxury Amir doesn’t have. Until the drone get’s here they’ll just have to make do.

There’s a loud screech from beside him as Preach pulls up in the beat up old SUV they’d requisitioned for the op. McG and Jaz are already in the back, faces grim and determined. McG reaches around the front seat and throws open the door for him, gesturing him in hurriedly.

Later there will be time to question what went wrong, to process. Later, after they get Amir back. Right now though, it’s time to move. Dalton climbs into the car, yanking the door shut behind him. Three minutes, he thinks as Preach takes off with a squeal of rubber against concrete, 180 seconds. They can make that work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's actually really interesting to see the difference between Amir and Khedani. If you watch Hadi Tabbal's body language in It's All Personal his whole physicality and the way he holds himself changes when he's undercover as Khedani as opposed to when he's playing Amir. Super subtle but super indicative of Amir's skill as an undercover agent.


	3. Chapter Three

The road is bumpy and full of potholes. The beat-up old SUV they’re in has just north of zero suspension and Jaz can feel every jolt in her teeth. The meet was on the outskirts of Ben Gardane but the jeeps ahead of them are heading straight for the city center. She doesn’t like it, too many civilians, to many chances for something to go wrong. Or at least more wrong then they already have. She grits her teeth, lets her fingers tighten around the barrel of her gun. They’re going to get him back. There isn’t another option.

“There were two cars.” She says tersely. “Which one did they put him in?”

Dalton’s eyes flick to hers for a second before focusing back through the windshield.

“I hit the one they put him in in the gas tank, it was leaking oil everywhere.”

She nods. Adjusts her grip and settles back into her seat. She’s going to have words with Amir once they rescue his scrawny ass about his irritating habit of doing stupidly dangerous things. He should have taken the k-bar she offered him. 

Suddenly Preach slams on the brakes, sending her flying into the back of the seat in front of her. She bites her tongue hard when her face makes contact with hot pleather, teeth cutting through skin and drawing blood. Beside her McG lets out a muffled curse.

“What the hell man!?”

He groans, rubbing his nose as he sits back up.

“A kid ran across the street.”

Preach replies tightly as the car jerks into movement again. Jaz rights herself, glances out the front again and feels her stomach drop. The jeeps are gone.

“Shit. Did you see which way they turned?”

She hisses, pushing herself up a little to get a better view through the windshield. Preach shakes his head sharply, focused on maneuvering the unwieldy SUV through foot traffic. They’re firmly in Ben Gardane now, and the sides of the streets are lined with small shops and plywood stands. Children and dogs play in the dust and pedestrians mill busily back and forth. The place is a nightmare for any kind of high-speed chase. They inch along painfully slowly, Jaz keeps her eyes out the window, searching for any flash of drab jeep that might point them in the right direction but she finds nothing. Vaguely she registers that Dalton’s talking to command on the comms, voice even but strained.

“Drone’s above us now, they have visual on the vehicles.”

He says finally, a hint of relief seeping into his tone, he points ahead.

“Preach, take a right at this intersection. We’re going to cut them off. Jaz, get ready. We’ll be coming out on their left.”

She nods, scrambling across McG’s legs to get to the other side of the backseat. He’s already cranked down the window for her. Her nerves settle as she brings her M16’s barrel up to rest on the sill, taking a deep breath and blocking everything out. She lets her fear drain away, replacing it with cold hard steel. The car sways dangerously as Preach hangs a hard right down the narrows streets of Ben Gardane and she jams her boots under the back of Dalton’s seat and the foot well by the door. Beside her McG puts a steadying hand on her shoulder. Peeling stucco buildings flash by, people blurring into a stream of color and sound. She waits. From the front Dalton starts to count down,

“We’ll have visual in three…two….one…contact.”

Abruptly the block of houses end as the back alley they’re on merges once more with the main arterial heading into the central district. Her eyes scan the busy street and latch onto the dusty jeep speeding along, oil dripping from it’s paneling like a trail of bread crumbs. Preach pulls up beside it, nearly parallel but separated by maybe 30 feet or so. McG’s fingers wrap through the straps of her TAC vest as she leans forward, shoulders and torso hanging out of the window as she sights carefully down her scope. Wind whips at her face and pulls hair from its braid; she can see it fluttering in the corners of her vision. Inhaling she let’s her heartbeat slows steady and slow in her chest. She can see the driver, attention focused forward, and just behind him another man in the passenger seat. Two targets, two bullets. She pulls the trigger, feels the recoil in her hands. Pulls it again. Feels a grim satisfaction when a spray of red paints the inside of the driver’s side window.

The jeep starts to weave and swerve dangerously across the road before plowing headfirst into a wall, smoke beginning to rise in swirling tendrils from the hood. Oil still leaks in a steady stream from its rear end, dripping like blood into the street. Around it pedestrians scream, scattering away from the wreck for the safety of doorways and shops, a sense of panic filling the busy street. The air smells of gas and blood and fear, it’s thick with it.

Preach pulls up next to the crash, throwing the car into park. Jaz reaches down with one hand and fumbles for handle of her door, keeping her M16 leveled at the smoldering jeep. There’s been no sign of life yet, but she knows better then to trust what she sees at first glance. She’s learned that lesson the hard way. The door swings open and she slips down, boots raising clouds of dust when they make contact. Dalton’s already out, back square and familiar in front of her.

“Jaz, McG. Check the two in the front.”

He says, tone steady. If Jaz didn’t know him better she’d believe that, but she does, and she hears the storm brewing beneath the surface. She nods, moving forward, McG a step behind her. Slowly the interior of the jeep comes in view. The driver is sitting slumped over the steering wheel, eyes wide and unseeing and blood slowly pooling on the dash, dripping from the neat hole in his forehead. Still, she reaches through the shattered window and presses her fingers to his carotid. There’s nothing. McG’s circless around to the other side of the jeep and does the same for the man in the passengers seat. She glances up, meets his gaze. He shakes his head.

“Clear.”

She calls over her shoulder, McG echoes her from his side. Then, as a single movement the all turn to Dalton, waiting. The tension is so thick in the air she almost imagines she can taste it. Or maybe it’s just the blood in her mouth. He moves forward, Preach a step behind him with his rifle at the ready, and yanks open the back door. Jaz can’t see past him but she watches his shoulders tense, hears the soft exhale that ghosts from his lips like he’s been punched. She pushes past him and he lets her, moving to the side. Once she gets a clear view she understands. It’s empty. Amir’s not there. Her chest aches bright and sharp and whispers a name in her ear like a memory before she shoves it down.

“Where is he.” She asks, voice sharp, hanging onto the last threads of her self -control. “This is the right car isn’t it?”

Dalton runs a hand down his face, wiping at his mouth.

“They’ve must have moved him while we didn’t have visual.”

He says. Jaz resists the urge to hit something. She hates it when they’re smart.

“So what’s the plan Top,” McG questions, making his way back around the jeep towards them, eyebrows knitted tightly. “We’re going after these assholes right?”

Dalton’s quiet for a long moment. He’s just opening his mouth to reply when there’s a click in their ears.

“Mortem actual, this is command. Requesting status update.”

Dalton glances up, meets Jaz’s eyes for a second, looks away. When he replies his voice is heavy.

“Command this is mortem actual. Target’s in the wind and…and Amir has not been recovered.”

 

* * *

 

The sun beats down on Dalton’s exposed neck. The weight of the words he just said sit on his shoulders like a full load of gear, dragging him down to the cracked pavement of the street below him. He’s thirsty, probably bordering on dehydrated and his mouth feels dry and cracked. He swallows, runs his tongue over his lips. The other end of the comm line is silent except for the hum of static. Finally Patricia replies.

“Dalton, switch to a private line.”

He obeys, turning and walking a few paces from the team. He can feel their eyes on him, he can feel he’s not going to like what he’s about to hear.

“Dalton,”

She says again. She sounds sorry. He wipes at a bead of sweat on his forehead. Christ, it’s so damn hot out, how do people live in this heat?

“We’re pulling you out.”

He’s not surprised. It doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel like a punch to the gut.

“So what,” he says, a hint of anger rising in his voice. He stops himself, shoving it down. Takes a deep breath and tries again. “So what, we just leave Amir behind? Abandon him?”

“If Jebali’s got any brain at all he’s already halfway to the Libyan border. There’s at least three different ISIS compounds in Libya that are currently active, or they could just be moving him across the border to Egypt and into Syria. I can’t let you run around and start an international incident. There’s just too many variables and we don’t have enough information.”

She’s right, he knows. They don’t have the information, don’t have the time, don’t have the resources. It still hurts though. Just because it’s right doesn’t mean he has to like it. There are a lot of things that are right that he doesn’t like.

“I promise you, Adam, we’re not abandoning him.”

She says, and he can hear in her voice that she doesn’t like this either. Behind him three sets of eyes burn into his back, hotter even then the sun. He can feel how bad they want to go after Amir, feel the tension in the air. Being the leader of an omega team is like holding onto the leashes of a bunch of Rottweiler’s. The raw power there is exhilarating, yes, but it’s also a heavy burden to carry. They’ll listen to him, he knows that, but they’ll chafe at the leash. Sometimes it feels like he’s holding a bomb in both hands with no way to defuse it.

“Okay.” He says finally, and the words taste bitter in his mouth. “Okay. You’re right. But we’re coming back for him, and that’s non-negotiable.”

“Of course.”

She replies, and Dalton trusts her when she says it. He always has, always will. Has too, or none of this works. It’s all about trust, like he knows his team will trust him when he says they have to leave even if it tears them to pieces to do it. The easy part is following orders; the hard part is giving them.

Taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders he turns around, faces them. Expectantly they watch him.

“We going or not?”

McG asks, tall frame tense and wired. Dalton wants to look away but he doesn’t let himself, he owes Amir that much. Owes all of them that much, to look them in the eyes when he gives the word.

“We’re proceeding to the LZ.”

He barks out briskly, like if he’s efficient and professional enough that will lessen the blow somehow. The words hang in the air between them, echoing in his ears. It doesn’t even sound like his voice. He’d like to pretend it wasn’t.

“Wait, ” Jaz cries, tone incredulous. “So we’re just going to leave him behind?”

He closes his eyes for a second, allows himself that moment of weakness.

“It’s orders.”

He says when he opens them again, meeting her gaze. She looks fierce, dust smeared across her cheeks and wisps of her hair escaping from her tight braid, she looks angry.

“So? When has that ever stopped us before, huh? They haven’t had time to get that far, we can still catch up to them if we move now.”

McG takes a step forward, stops, frowns.

“I mean come on, Top, you know what they do to American prisoners. If they’ve figured out he’s military…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence but he doesn’t need to. They all know. Dalton turns to the one person who hasn’t said a word yet, something close to desperation welling in his stomach.

“Preach, what do you think.”

He asks, in that same strange alien voice that does not sound like his own. Preach doesn’t reply for a second. His dark eyes are impassive and thoughtful.

“I think that you wouldn’t leave any of us without good reason behind it. I think that I trust you. If you say we go, we should go.”

He says finally, slowly, testing each word in his mouth like he’s not entirely pleased with them. Dalton dips his chin once, glances back to McG and Jaz. McG looks at Preach, then at Dalton again. His jaw works, muscles in his shoulders bunching and unbunching, but eventually they slump and he inclines his head in agreement.

“Alright.”

He bites out. He sounds defeated. Beside him though Jaz’s face is pale and bloodless, lips pressed so tight they’re nearly white. Her fingers clench and unclench around the grip of her M16.

“Jaz.”

Dalton says, in his ear Hannah’s voice crackles,

“Mortem actual be advised local police are two minutes out.”

In the distance he can hear the wail of sirens steadily growing louder. Around them a crowd has started to gather.

“Jaz!” He says again, louder this time. “We have to move now.”

She grimaces, looking away. When she looks back though she nods.

“Fine. But for the record? I don’t agree with this.”

Dalton thinks that’s okay, she doesn’t have to agree, she just has to listen. They all have to listen. He knew they would, he hates that they did.

They’re silent as they clamber back into their stolen truck, quiet as they drive to the exfil point. Quiet as they load onto the helo. The count sounds wrong without a fifth voice joining in, like asking a question that won’t be answered. This isn’t right, he thinks as they pull away from the ground. They’re a team, and being a team means you don’t leave anyone behind. But they’re also soldiers, and that means sometimes you do.


	4. Chapter Four

The helo drops them off at Bizerte-Sidi Airforce base where they’d flown in from Incirlik just this morning. It’s only been about six hours since their boots touched ground in Tunisia, McG realizes numbly as he hops out of the helicopter, wind from it's rotaries whipping at his hair. God, it feels like it’s been so much longer.

There’s a C-130 which stopped over to refuel waiting there that’s going to take them to Turkey. They load up quietly, a heavy dragging silence hanging over the team. Usually the flights back to base are chaotic and full of a sort of wound up nervous energy as they all come down from the adrenaline rush of a successful op. They joke and tease and rehash the funny moments, lick their wounds if they have them; a sense of camaraderie and satisfaction bringing them all together. Not today though, today it feels more like a funeral march.

They all drift apart once their gear’s stowed away. There’s plenty of room to spread out, the 130 can handle nearly a 100 troops at max capacity and right now it’s just the four of them and a few pallets of MRE’s and medical supplies to fill up the arching cavernous hold of the plane. Preach goes off to a corner to release his negative energy into the universe or whatever it is that Preach needs to do, face blank and careful and unreadable. Jaz starts to strip and clean her M16 with a dogged determination, sinking into her own private world to which everyone else is very much not invited. She still looks angry. McG sympathizes. He’d be angry too, if he weren’t so tired. He is tired, though, right down to his bones. It’s the kind of tired sleep won’t fix. Looking around at his team all he sees is a plane of walking wounded, bleeding their hearts out all over the corrugated steel floor. And McG’s a medic, it’s his job to fix people, sew things back together, but these are the kind of wounds that he can’t mend. The kind that only exist inside. It makes his fingers itch with the urge to do something.

As the 130 starts to take off McG glances around for the one man he hasn't seen. Earlier when Dalton had climbed into the car in front of him he’d noticed blood splashed across the back of his neck. There hadn’t been time then to stop and assess the injury and Dalton hadn’t mentioned it so McG had filed it away for later inspection, figuring it wasn't life threatening. Then again, Dalton wouldn’t mention it if he had a sucking chest wound so McG’s learned not to put much stock in that. He waits till the plane levels off its ascent before unbuckling and pushing himself to his feet, grabbing his med bag out from underneath his seat. He should probably make sure their team leader isn't quietly bleeding out somewhere.  

McG finds him across the aisle, tucked out of view behind one of the pallets. His eyes are closed and his arms are folded loosely over his chest. He looks like he’s asleep but McG knows he’s not, he’s spent enough time in combat zones with the man to know when he’s pretending. Dropping down onto the seat next to him he gives him a gentle nudge with his knee. Dalton cracks open an eye and glances over at McG but doesn’t say anything.

“Come on, turn around.”

McG says, raising his voice a little to be heard over the rumble of the 130. Dalton doesn’t move.

“It’s just a scratch.”

McG sighs, unzipping his bag and pulling out some iodine wipes and gauze. Why does it always have to be like pulling teeth with him? It’s like the man is allergic to medical care.

“Yeah, it’s only a scratch till it gets infected and then we’re down two guys. Just, turn around, alright?”

For a second Dalton doesn’t move and McG think’s he’s going to have to fight him on it but finally he shifts slowly till his back is facing McG. The collar of his shirt is crusty and stiff with the blood still dripping from the nape of his neck, and what isn't red is grey with what looks like concrete dust. Ripping open a swab Mcg starts to dab at the drying blood. Dalton flinches once, when he first presses the wipe to the gore but then doesn’t move again. When he finally clears away enough of the mess to get a good look at the wound he sees Dalton was right, the cut is shallow and barely half an inch long, won’t even need stitches. He’s folding up a square of gauze when Dalton speaks again, voice flat and barely intelligible.

“You know, when he was getting put in the jeep Amir was trying to tell me something. I couldn’t hear it but I could see him mouthing something at me.”

He pauses, breath hitching. McG keeps quiet, reaches up to press the bandage over the cut, other hand fumbling in his bag for the medical tape. After a moment Dalton clears his throat, starts again.

“I thought… I thought it was the intel we came for maybe, or-or where they were taking him and I was trying to figure it out and… he was just saying it’s okay, over and over again. _It’s okay_. His cover was blown, he was getting shoved in a car to be carted off to god knows where, no guarantee he’d make it out alive, and he was trying to tell me it was okay.”

McG finishes taping the gauze down, letting his hands drop into his lap. Dalton doesn’t turn around. McG doesn’t know what to say so instead he starts to put his supplies back in his bag, clearing away the now bloody wipes. He’s glad he can’t see Dalton’s face.He wonders if that's selfish. Eventually though there’s nothing left to pack away. Dalton hasn’t moved yet, his back still facing McG and his shoulders slumped. He looks as defeated as McG’s ever seen him. It reminds him of when…reminds him of when Elijah died. At the thought a pain that’s still a little raw swells bright and bloody in his chest and for a second it’s hard to breath. He pushes it down though, because Amir’s not dead, he’s not dead and he isn’t Elijah either. Pressing his hands flat against his thighs he takes a deep breath.

“We’ll get him back.”

He says, wishes he sounded more sure of it. Dalton’s nods once, quick and jerky.

“Yeah,” he says, pauses again, “but maybe we shouldn’t have left him behind.”

McG has nothing to say to that so he doesn’t say anything at all. After a few seconds he gets up and makes his way back to his seat, the planes floor trembling underneath his feet. Maybe they all need to be alone for a bit.

It’s about a five-hour flight to Incirlik so McG gets as comfortable as he can in the web seat (which isn’t very) and slips in a pair of ear buds, trying to get some rest. Once they get back to base it’s going to be hours of debriefing and follow-up before they get released. Sleep doesn’t come for a long time and when it does he dreams of flag covered coffins and three empty volleys echoing against a slate grey sky.

 

* * *

 

Jaz takes a deep breath and bites back the heated words building in her throat, fingers tapping angrily against the stiff fabric of her BDU’s. They hadn’t even been given time to change out of their fatigues, still covered in the sweat and sand and dust of Ben Gardane. As soon as the 130’s wheels had hit tarmac in Turkey they’d all been bundled straight from the plane to their debriefing. Currently some uptight major from JSOC with a perfectly creased uniform is grilling them about the details of the operation.

“When contact was made with the target, Youssef Jebali, did Agent…Agent Raisani do or say anything that might have alerted the target to his identity as an undercover military operative?”

He asks, stumbling a little over Amir’s name. He pronounces it all wrong, dragging out the first syllable for too long and it grates at her ears. He should at least know Amir’s goddamn name.

“It’s Rasani, not Raysani.” She says, doing her best to keep her irritation out of her voice. “And he didn’t make any mistakes, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Major Carlton clears his throat, brow furrowing.

“I’m not trying to assign blame here, Sergeant. While I’m sure Agent _Ra_ sani is a capable operative it’s still possible-”

Jaz sits up a little, jaw clenching.

“He wasn’t the one who messed up, okay? Somebody blew his cover. You should spend a little less time pointing fingers at the guy who risked his life out in the field and a little more time figuring out who the hell that was.”

She snaps. Jaz knows that Major Carlton outranks her by more then a little bit and it’s generally not the greatest move to directly question ranking officers but she’s tired and she’s pissed and she just watched her teammate get shoved in a car to be interrogated, probably tortured, and possibly executed and she’s not in the mood to listen to some stuffy officer in a uniform whose probably never been in an active combat zone question Amir’s abilities. He wasn’t there, he didn’t _know_ what it was like, and reading a file and watching some body cam footage wasn’t going to change that.

“I assure you, the breach in our intelligence is being thoroughly investigated. However we do have to consider the possibility for…operator error… as it were.”

Jaz’s jaw is so tight now she’s sure she’ll have a headache later, and she can feel her teeth gritting against each other. Her dentist won’t be happy with her. She opens her mouth to say something that would almost definitely get her written up for an Article 89 and quite possibly court martialed when Dalton taps her lightly under the table, giving her a tiny shake of his head. She closes her mouth, swallowing her words, but even he can’t stop the glare she shoots at the Major as she settles back into her chair and crosses her arms.

“Major, I believe what Sergeant Khan is trying to say is that there was no operator error, as you put it, in this situation. Agent Raisani is an experienced undercover operative and I trust him implicitly. What went wrong during this operation was not on him.”

Dalton says, as diplomatic as ever. Major Carlton nods, closing the file he’s been flipping through and tossing it on the table in front of him.

“Alright, maybe so, Captain Dalton. But then who is it on?”

Dalton pauses, silent. Jaz watches his throat bob as he swallows. Before he can reply though there’s a knock on the door and a nervous looking private opens the door to the briefing room. Casting a glance over the team he walks quickly to the Major and leans down to whisper something in his ear. Carlton listens, his eyes still watching them carefully. After a second the private straightens, salutes, and leaves. Carlton sighs, standing.

“Well, it looks like I’m done here. The Deputy Director has requested an immediate conference with your team. However I still expect a full and thorough report of the operation Captain.”

He says as he starts to gather his files. Dalton inclines his head respectfully.

“Of course, Major.”

They all rise to their feet and salute perfunctorily as he exits the room. Jaz keeps her eyes forward and her mouth shut to keep from doing anything she might regret. As soon as the door swings shut she drops her arm, not holding the salute a second longer then necessary.

“Jaz…”

Dalton says, he sounds tired. She’s sorry for that, but she doesn’t regret her actions.

“Did you hear the shit he was spouting? Operator error my ass, he was just trying to pin this whole thing on Amir, I mean, come on Top.”

Dalton meets her wild gaze with level eyes.

“Jaz,” He says again, more gently this time. “I know. I didn’t like it either, but right now insulting a superior officer isn’t going to help anyone. Especially not Amir.”

Jaz deflates at that, righteous anger flowing out of her like water out of a shattered glass. He’s right, she knows he is, but it still stings. It’s just that she hates not being able to _do_ anything. It feels wrong to just sit here while Amir is gone. Jaz is a woman of action, of doing, and this is her worst nightmare right here. To be stuck in this cramped little meeting room with her hands tied and knowing that there is nothing she can do but sit and wait and rely on others. Taking a deep breath she forces herself to sit. Dalton follows suit, watching her a little warily, and she looks down to avoid his gaze. There’s a spot of something red on the left leg of her pants and she picks at it idly with her thumbnail as they wait. No one speaks.

After a few minutes the same nervous private from earlier walks in carrying an ExtraTough. Quietly he sets it up at the end of the table while the rest of them rearrange their chairs so they can all see the screen. Dalton waits for the private to leave before he initiates the call. It only rings for a second before the connection goes through and Campbell’s face pops into view on the screen.

She looks as tired as Dalton sounds, glasses pushed up on her forehead and wisps of hair falling around her face like a bleach blonde halo.

“Director.”

“Dalton.” She replies, voice crackling over the line. “I’m sorry about Amir.”

She sounds like she means it, there’s a kindness there, an understanding. Dalton shakes his head.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

He says, that strange hitch in his voice again. Like there’s something he wants to say but can’t quite bring himself to say it.

“It was a bad situation.”

Jaz thinks it’s a bit of an understatement to call it a ‘bad situation’. If you went to the dictionary and looked up FUBAR you’d probably find a summary. Campbell nods, that soft trace of kindness shuttered away behind iron professionalism once more.

“It was, but there’s nothing we can do about it now. I have Noah looking into where the possible breach in our security was. In the meantime, I’m keeping your team grounded until further notice.”

Dalton’s eyebrows rise a fraction of an inch but other then that he gives no reaction to her words.

“It’ll be us though, when we find him, it should be us to bring him back.”

Jaz can’t help but interject. She makes sure to say when not if, because ‘if’ opens a door to things she doesn’t want to think about. Campbell glances over at her, gaze appraising. Her eyes are very pale, almost closer to grey then blue. They remind Jaz of the ice that used to form in the puddles outside her apartment in New York, thin and cool and yet beautiful. Finally, she sighs.

“You’re right, it should be. And I will do my best to make sure it is.”

Jaz nods back, satisfied. They left him there, and justified or not they owe it to him to get him back. Campbell continues,

“I’ve reached out to contacts in MI6, CSIS. They’ll keep an eye out for any news of an American prisoner and the DIA and CIA are both assembling any and all intel we have on Jebali and his known associates. We’ll bring him home, I promise.”

Dalton swallows, inclines his head.

“Thank you, Director.”

She nods shortly, her face softening again, just a little.

“Of course, Dalton. It’s the least I could do. As soon as I have more information you’ll be the first to know. In the meantime, get some rest. Leaving someone behind…it’s never easy.”

It’s really not, Jaz thinks as she watches Dalton end the call, screen flickering to black. It’s not an easy thing to do, and looking around at her team, her family, she sees in their eyes what this has cost them, what it will cost them. The only thing she knows right now is that they will get Amir back, they have to. She clings to that truth with both hands, because she’s afraid if she lets go the weight of what they’ve done will crush her under it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JSOC - Joint Special Operations Command  
> Article 89 - punitive articles of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, disrespect towards a superior commissioned officer  
> CSIS - Canadian Security Intelligence Agency


	5. Chapter Five

As soon as they get out of debrief McG heads straight to the gym. While it had been amusing to watch Jaz nearly rip a superior officer a new one he still needs to blow off some steam, pound a bag and not think about anything for a while. Not think about Amir, a tiny part of his mind supplies grimly. He squashes the traitorous voice and ignores the tightness that blooms in his chest at the thought.

The gym’s not too crowded when he walks in. Two guys are sparring casually in the roped off ring in the center of the room and there’s a few lifting weights in the corner by the door. They pause when he walks in, whispering quietly to each other while throwing glances as he passes by. Setting his bag onto the bench by the sparring mats he unzips it, fishing out his gloves and tape.

“Hey, heard you lost your new guy.”

One of them calls out, McG thinks his name is Spencer. He forgot how quick gossip spreads on base. Soldiers are worse then high school girls. He can hear the sound of them laughing behind him. He ignores them, focusing on carefully wrapping his knuckles.

“Aw, come on, not gonna tell us what happened?”

Spencer pushes, a little louder, a little brasher. McG takes a deep breath; apparently the kid hadn’t gotten the hint.

“I didn’t realize it was any of your goddamn business.”

He says evenly, letting a little bit of a threat bleed into his tone as he pulls on his boxing gloves. Either Spencer is too stupid or too much of an asshole to realize the dangerous ground he’s treading on because he just barrels on.

“I mean, I think it is our business, considering who he is. You never know with those ragheads.”

The word echoes in a suddenly silent room.

“With those _what_?”

McG snaps, turning around. Spencer’s grinning at him, a cocky look in his eyes.

“Want to say that again to my face?”

He asks, dangerously. If Second Lieutenant Spencer wants a fight then McG will give him one, with pleasure. He’s wearing training gloves, only eight ounces, but he knows how to make those eight ounces hurt when he needs too. Spencer just shrugs though, putting his hands up in a placating gesture.

“Hey, no offense meant brother, I’m just saying…”

“If you want to talk shit then get in the ring with me, otherwise I don’t give a fuck what you’re just saying, alright.” McG grates out, trying to keep his temper in check. “We clear?”

Spencer nods,

“Crystal, sir.”

He replies, giving McG a mocking two fingered salute before turning back to his buddies, smug grin still pasted across his face. McG would love to smack it right off his mouth but he restrains the urge, walking over to the punching bag hanging in the back corner of the gym instead and starting his warm-up.

When he finishes he feels sweaty and tired and empty, muscles aching in a comfortingly familiar way. He pulls off his gloves, grabbing a towel to wipe at the sweat dripping down his forehead and taking a swig out of his water bottle. Yanking the bandages off of his knuckles with a little more force then entirely necessary he stuffs his things into his duffel and slings it over his shoulder before heading for the exit.

“Hey, say hi to your friend when he comes back to blow us all up for his ISIS buddies will you?”

McG pauses, tells himself to just keep walking. Spencer snickers in the background and before he realizes it he’s turning on his heel.

“Excuse me?”

He growls, fingers tightening around the strap of his gym bag. Spencer pushes himself up from the weight bench, taking a step towards McG and leaning in close. McG doesn’t back away, letting Spencer get in his face. Even though he’s a big guy McG doesn’t normally use it, but now he let’s all of his 6’3” frame tower over the smaller man.

“I said,” Spencer repeats, slow and deliberate. “Say hi to your friend when he comes back to blow us all to shit.”

McG’s fuse is long and difficult to start but Spencer has it well and truly lit, and that was a very stupid move. He lets his bag slip from his shoulder. It hits the ground with a heavy thud. Spencer’s looking away from him, laughing with his friends with a self-satisfied look on his doughy features. He doesn’t even see it coming when McG’s arm swings around like a sledgehammer and lands a heavy right hook across his cheek. There’s a satisfying crack under McG’s fist and blood starts to pour from Spencer’s nose as he goes down. He’s about to go for a second one when hands catch him by the arm and around the chest, yanking him backwards. He lets them, not struggling against the hold but his muscles are still stiff and tense with anger.

Spencer picks himself up off the ground, shaking off his friend’s hands as they try to help him up. He sniffs wetly, hawking a gob of bloody saliva onto the floor. He doesn’t look smug anymore, he looks furious and it contorts his face into something cruel and bitter.

“He’s nothing but a dirty fuckin’ hajji, same as the rest of ‘em and I hope he stays gone.”

He hisses, lips pulling back to reveal bloodstained teeth. Fury rises white hot in McG’s stomach, because Amir has worked so hard and sacrificed so much for this country, for _these_ people and this is the thanks he gets for it. Because Amir might be dead and this asshole sits here safe and sound and spits on his name and that is not fair. It’s not fair that Amir is gone and Spencer is standing here with blood on his teeth and laughing about it and McG knows that life isn’t fair more often then not but it still makes him angry. Growling he bucks forward against the hands restraining him, nearly breaking free of their grip. Spencer flinches, face paling, and takes a step back.

“Hey. Hey! Settle down McGuire!”

Somebody says from behind him as they pull him back away from Spencer again. He brushes their hands off angrily, reaching down to grab his bag from where it’s laying discarded on the floor. Yanking it up over his shoulder again he stalks out of the gym with a bitter taste in his mouth and blood on his knuckles.

As soon as he gets back to their unit he heads straight for the shower, shedding his sweaty clothes in a heap on the floor. He runs the water cold and stands under it for a long time, trying to wash the heat in his veins away. He hit Spencer hard enough to split the skin along a few of his knuckles and blood runs pink down the drain.

When he finishes he pulls on some clean clothes and heads out to the kitchen, toweling his hair dry as he goes. Dalton’s there, sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and an unpeeled banana in front of him, reading something out of a file. He looks up when McG walks in, eyes immediately zeroing in on McG’s raw knuckles. McG resists the urge to hide the offending hand behind his back like a naughty schoolchild. Instead he throws his towel over the back of a chair and wanders over to the fridge, pulling out a bottle of water and taking a swig. Dalton watches him quietly.

“Where are Jaz and Preach?”

McG asks finally, trying to fill the silence.

“Jaz went for a run, Preach is talking to his family.” He says, then gestures to McG’s hand. “That’s going to bruise.”

McG glances down. He’s right, the skin is already starting to bloom purple and blue.

“You should put some ice on before it starts to swell.”

Dalton continues, as if McG isn’t an experienced combat medic, as if he hasn’t treated a thousand bruised knuckles before. If it was any other day McG would have made a smart ass remark in reference to that fact, but not today. Today he just opens the freezer and pulls out the ice tray, cracking a few cubes into a plastic bag and pressing it to his knuckles, taking a seat next to Dalton. Dalton doesn’t look up from his file but he pushes the banana over to McG, their knees bumping under the table. These are the small kindnesses they can offer each other, when there is nothing else to give.

 

* * *

 

Amir was a quiet man. He didn’t take up much room, physically or otherwise. Always off to the side, always watching, observing what went on around him with sharp silent eyes. Preach thinks it’s probably a product of his previous career. It didn’t do to bring attention to yourself as a spy, much better to simply fade away into the background. They had been trying to break him of the habit, because he was part of a team now, he could afford to take up space. Still, he would never be like McG who walked into a room and lit it up like a Christmas tree, wearing his heart on his sleeve for all to see. Amir was more reserved, self-contained. He did not extend beyond his own skin.

It’s surprising, then, how much space Amir’s absence takes up. It sits with them at breakfast, follows them to bed at night. It echoes in every word they do not say. Jaz goes on a lot of runs. McG spends too much time in the gym and comes home with bruised knuckles, and Adam, well Adam is Adam. He buries himself in overdue paperwork and intel briefings and locks the tender parts of him away beneath iron discipline. It worries Preach. He’s doing a lot of worrying right now.

It’s just they’re all holding it back, refusing to let themselves feel the pain. It won't work, because the thing about pain is that it demands to be felt and one way or another it will be. Someone’s going to snap if they keep going like this, not talking, not processing, just ignoring the emptiness that follows them everywhere they go now. It's not healthy. Eventually, someone does snap, although not in the way that Preach expected. He supposes he should be grateful for that, take the small mercies where he can find them. 

They’re all eating breakfast. It was Jaz’s turn to cook and she’d made what she always made, eggs and bacon. It’s a quiet affair, none of them in the mood to talk. It’s been a week since Amir was taken and there’s been no news. It’s always been said no news is better then bad news but Preach is finding hard to believe that particular truth at the moment.

The sound of a choked little laugh cuts through the still air. Preach glances up to see Jaz, holding a forkful of eggs halfway to her face, a piece dripping off the edge of the utensil. McG’s looking at her like she’s crazy and even Dalton’s eyebrows are creased in confusion.

“Amir was right,” She says, eyes creased and lips pulled tight in something that could almost be a smile. “My eggs are runny.”

As if in support of her statement the piece of egg clinging to her fork loses it’s battle with gravity and falls to the table with a wet splat. McG looks at Jaz, looks to the sad piece of egg now spread across the pockmarked table top, looks back to Jaz again, still frozen with her fork in the air, and then bursts out laughing.

“Christ Jaz,” He wheezes out, “You’re just figuring that out?”

For a moment Jaz’s face hovers on the border between offended and amused but then it softens and she starts to laugh too, runny eggs shaking like jello on the fork. Even Adam joins in, hand reaching up to cover his mouth like he has to hide his smile from the world. They have to laugh because if they don’t they’ll cry. It’s desperate and brittle and doesn’t quite sound like joy but it’s close enough, closer then they’ve been since Tunisia.

Eventually though the laughter runs out and all they’re left with is a plate of congealing bacon, runny eggs, and an empty chair at the table. Suddenly it doesn’t seem quite as funny anymore. The shutters on Adam swing close once more, his face settling back to neutral. He looks down, swallows hard, pokes at a piece of bacon on his plate.

“I’m sorry.”

He says finally, voice low and quiet. McG snorts, waves him off.

“Sorry about what? It’s not your fault Jaz can’t make eggs for shit.”

He says, tone painfully light. Adam just shakes his head though.

“I’m your commanding officer, I’m responsible for you. It was…” he pauses, taking a deep breath, “it was my fault. I hesitated-“

Jaz cuts him off, shaking her head vigorously.

“I should have been able to take the tango down before he even got Amir in the car if it was anyone’s fault-”

“No,”

Adam says, gently interrupting her. She looks like she wants to continue but instead presses her lips tightly together.

“No. I hesitated, I froze up. This is on me.”

McG scoffs, throwing his fork down on the table. It ricochets off of his plate with a loud clatter as he leans back, folding his arms across his chest. His eyes are dark, brows furrowed and the corners of his mouths tug downward.

“Oh come on, Top. That’s bullshit and you know it. Jaz is right, we were support we should have been able back him up.”

Soon it devolves into a mess of overlapping voices, everybody trying to take the blame for themselves, each trying to bear their own cross. The wound has opened and all the festering guilt and frustration and fear is leaking out at once, spilling out across the breakfast table. Preach lets them continue for a few seconds, watching the rest of the team silently. Finally after they’ve started to tire themselves out he steps in.

“Hey.”

His voice is lost in the fray so he tries again, using the tone he puts on when his daughters are bickering.

“Hey!”

Preach is also a quiet man, but he knows how to be heard when he needs to be. He’s not the father of two little girls for nothing. The word cuts through the messy, unkempt mass of conversation and rings against the aluminum walls of the Quonset hut. Everyone falls silent, turning to him. He takes a deep breath, holds it for a second, and exhales through his nose. Nobody else says a word, just waiting. When Preach uses that tone of voice it’s time to listen, they’ve learned.

“This is pointless. It doesn’t help Amir and it doesn’t help us. I don’t believe in guilt, I believe in responsibility. Maybe you hesitated Top, but then Jaz and McG should have been able to make the shot and I should have picked up on the conversation and command should have gotten us the intel sooner. It doesn’t do any good to dwell on the should-haves, that’s the past and we can’t change it. Now we focus on the future. We focus on how we get him back.”

They don’t reply. What is there to say? Because the truth is when you strip away the shame and blame and regret all you find underneath is fear, and that is a harder sin to face then guilt. They've learned that lesson well. 

He wakes up early the next day, makes himself a cup of coffee, leaves some on the burner for when Adam gets up. He goes out and sits on the picnic bench to watch the sun rise. It doesn’t feel the same. He didn’t realize how much he’d come to expect the lilting rhythmic sound of Amir’s morning prayers to usher in the dawn. It sounds too quiet without him, the air empty and dry and brittle. Somewhere in the distance there’s the distinctive whine of an F-15 landing. A faint wind sends a piece of plastic sheeting tumbling across the packed dirt of their front yard, pushing it into the sand pit McG and Elijah built when they first where assigned to Incirlik. A few horseshoes lie wrapped around the stake. They haven’t been touched since McG and Amir left a game half played when they got the command for wheels up and now the abandoned horseshoes lay where they landed a week ago. Preach watches it flutter, caught on something in the sand, and takes a sip of his coffee.

Amir had his faith, his prayers and his god. He has a different sort of faith, he supposes. He has faith in people, not gods. He has faith in people, and it’s carried him through before. He doesn’t think Amir is going to be the one to let him down.


	6. Chapter 6

It’s been nearly three weeks now. 18 days. There’s been no real news, but there haven’t been any execution videos on Al Jazeera either, and he’ll take that as a win. Still, it’s getting hard to hold on to hope. Two and a half weeks with out anything feels like a long time, especially since Patricia’s still keeping them grounded. He understands why she does it, they’re all too emotionally compromised right now to be of use, but it also means there’s nothing to keep them distracted from the gaping hole that yawns in their team. And Dalton knows there’s only so long they can hold off the paperwork before they’re forced to label Amir MIA and move on. The thought makes him nauseous. It seems like only yesterday he’d waded through the painful process of finding someone to replace Elijah, he doesn’t think he can handle doing it again so soon. Doesn’t think any of them can.

In some ways, he thinks, it’s worse then with Elijah. At least then they had a body, they had an end to mourn. An end they’re still mourning. It’s the not knowing that wears on you, the uncertainty of it all. The last captive U.S. soldier was held by the Haqqani network for over five years. There are others who never come back at all.  
He tries not to think about Amir, about what might be happening to him right now. They’ve all read the reports; they’ve seen the pictures. It’s…it’s not pretty. It’s hard not too, though.

He remembers the conversation he had with Amir, right after the bombing a few months ago. Amir had been antsy, pent up energy burning underneath his skin and radiating off him in waves. He’d told him then to be patient, to learn to move on. We’re not the investigators, we’re the tip of the spear he’d said. He wishes he could eat those words now. He wants to be out there, boots on the ground and breaking in doors till he finds their teammate and brings him home. Instead he’s stuck here with nothing to distract him but old intelligence briefings and whatever scraps Patricia sends his way. It’s getting to him, the sitting and the waiting and the not knowing. It’s getting to everyone.

They’re out of joint, the four of them. The fifth point of their star is missing and it’s left them all unbalanced and floundering in what used to be something sure and easy. There are no more loud games of horseshoe or late night fires or gentle ribbing. They don’t spend as much time together either, drifting slowly apart, each trapped in their own world of guilt. The only real time they all gather in the same room is for the intelligence briefings they have with command every few days. Adam’s not sure they should really be titled intelligent as they generally only serve to highlight all the things they don’t know. Where Amir is, who currently has him, why there’s been no announcement from ISIS as to his capture. Mostly they just leave them all feeling more frustrated and hopeless then when they started. At the moment they’ve been circling the same question for the past twenty minutes.

“I just don’t get why they’re not saying anything,”

Jaz says, arms folded tightly over her chest. Her hair is loose and flows down her back, pooling across her shoulders.

“I mean nearly three weeks now and not a single word on any of the usual ISIS sites or any news organizations. This is a pretty big deal, you’d think they’d be bragging about it.”

On the ExtraTough Patricia shakes her head, sighing.

“I have to admit, I’m confused too. Usually they’re clamoring to claim responsibility for something like this. Or at least trying to demand a ransom or a prisoner swap.”

There’s a sharp crack as the front legs of McG’s chair make contact with the floor. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the edge of the table.

“And you’re not picking anything up from any sources? I mean they grabbed a goddamn U.S. soldier, that’s gotta kick up a stir in-house.”

Patricia shakes her head again.

“There’s been some chatter but nothing verifiable. The Tunisian government has been very co-operative, their military raided a few known ISIS associated outposts but they’ve found nothing as of yet.”

“That’s assuming he’s still even in Tunisia, and I personally think it’s a pretty safe bet to say he’s not. If I was Jebali I’d have moved him straight to Libya. They’re a lot less friendly with the U.S. and there’s a stronger ISIS foothold there.”

Preach adds quietly. Dalton stays quiet, rolling a thought that’s been growing for a while around in his head.

“What if…” He says slowly, “What if they don’t realize he’s military. Or even American.”

Everyone pauses, glancing back at him.

“When Noah was listening in on the phone lines, did they say that Amir was identified as an American operative? Or just that he wasn’t Hamid Khedani?”

Patricia pauses, glancing down and there’s the sound of pages being turned, her eyes scanning.

“Noah was tapping the phone Jebali was using. The call came from an unidentified local number which we later traced to a disposable burner, the message was ‘Hamid Khedani is a fake. He is a traitor, do not trust him’.” She says after a moment, “We assumed that they had figured out he was American.”

“But they never explicitly stated it, right?”

She nods.

“If Amir’s smart, which he is, he’ll have realized that and he won’t tip them off.”  
  
“So maybe they don’t realize what they’ve got. They know Hamid Khedani doesn’t exist, they know Amir was in with a support team but we weren’t wearing anything that identified us as American.”

McG says slowly, brows furrowed.

“Is that a good thing though? I mean if they don’t realize he’s a U.S. operative doesn’t that make him a lot more disposable?”

Jaz asks, hair shifting behind her as her head moves. McG shrugs, mouth tight.

“Being U.S. soldiers didn’t save Bryon Fouty and Alex Jimenez from being tortured for four months, shot in the head and then dumped in shallow graves.”

A suffocating silence falls over the room. Nobody moves. After a second Patricia cuts in, pushing her glasses up on her forehead.

“No, no. If Dalton’s right and they don’t realize who Amir is it’s a good thing. They won’t kill him until they can find out who he is and how he infiltrated ISIS. Hamid Khedani was a well known figure in North Africa, he was involved in a lot of operations and different cells. They must be spinning in circles right now trying to figure out how much he knows and who he might have told.”

Her words don’t do much to lift the heavy atmosphere that’s settled. Alive, maybe, but for how long? ISIS isn’t exactly renowned for it’s fair treatment of POW’s, especially one’s who know their secrets.

They sit quietly for a few minutes after the call ends. Nobody says a word, and the silence burns at Dalton’s ears. Jaz is the first to leave, pushing herself up from the table.

“I’m going for a run.”

She says shortly, disappearing into her bunk to change. McG’s the next to go, making excuses about running a training session down at the gym. Finally it’s just him and Preach. He can feel Preach watching him, expectant, but he doesn’t meet his eyes. He knows he should do something here, call them together, make them talk, try to fix this. He’s the leader, this is what he’s supposed to do, he's supposed to be better then this, supposed to make the best of bad situations.

He can’t, though, because every time he closes his eyes he sees the look on Amir’s face as he was pulled into the jeep burned onto the backs of his eyelids and every time he thinks about how Amir spent three years on his own and now that he has a team they failed him. So he says nothing, and eventually Preach sighs, levering himself to his feet, and walks away. Dalton watches him go and wonders how many ways can something break before it’s too late to put it back together again. Right now they just need something, anything, to give them hope.

As it turns out, hope comes two days later.

He’s dozing at his desk when the ExtraTough goes off in his ear, jolting him awake uncomfortably. He stares blearily in confusion at the screen for a second, they don’t have another briefing until tomorrow and they’re still grounded as far as he knows so why would the DIA be calling? Unless… his heart skips a beat and then he’s fumbling for his pager, other hand reaching out to answer the call. By luck or chance, or maybe even fate (if Dalton believed in that sort of thing) the whole team is actually nearby at the moment and they join him in a few seconds. By the time the connections gone through everyone’s standing behind him.

“What’s going on? Did they find something?”

Jaz asks, and Dalton can hear the hope and fear warring in her voice.

“I don’t know.”

He says, as Patricia’s face appears on the screen. She looks tired, they’ve all looked tired since Amir was taken, but she looks happy.

“Dalton,”

She says, and he feels his stomach tighten.

“I think we found him.” 

* * *

 

Jaz feels her heart leap into her throat, hands tightening on the back of Dalton’s chair until her knuckles whiten. Beside her she can feel McG shift, feel the tension she feels in herself in him too. She feels hope bubbling and tries to push it down. She’s learned from brutal experience that hope is an excellent way to get hurt.

“Four hours ago an MI6 agent stationed in Sirte picked up what appeared to be a prisoner transfer. They knew we were missing a guy and sent us these.”

Patricia gestures to someone out of view and a moment later a few blurry photos pop up on the screen. They’re grainy and out of focus but Jaz can discern a slight figure being half walked half dragged towards a battered Humvee, sandwiched between two men. His hands are tied behind his back and there’s bag over his head but Jaz recognizes the loose pale brown shirt he’s wearing, would recognize it everywhere. There’s a buzzing in her ears, her heart hammers in her chest. Vaguely she hears Patricia continue on through the static.

“We did some checking of our own and HUMINT confirms the transfer of a prisoner who they’re now holding at a complex just outside of Derna. We think it might be Amir.”

She keeps talking but Jaz barely listens. She knows she should, it’s probably important, but all she can hear is we think it might be Amir echoing over and over in her ears like a drumbeat. Vaguely she realizes the Deputy Director’s fallen silent, she asked a question, Jaz realizes.

“It’s him.”

Dalton answers, voice even and reassuring and the most confident Jaz has heard since they lost Amir.

“Are you sure?”

Patricia asks, eyes appraising and serious. Jaz knows what she left unsaid, _are you sure this isn’t just because you want it to be him_? Dalton doesn’t hesitate.

“100%.”

Jaz releases a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“Alright,” Patricia says, lips curving into the hint of a smile. “You’re wheels up for Libya in an hour.”

After that everything is a blur of motion as they get ready to leave. It’s been three weeks since they’ve been deployed, three weeks of waiting. Now it’s time for action, and Jaz can taste anticipation on her tongue like blood. This is what she’s built for, this is what runs in her veins. The familiar weight of an M16 in her hands feels like coming home.

The plan is simple. The simpler the better, Dalton always says, less chances for things to go wrong. And nothing can go wrong, not this time. They’re going to land outside of Tobruk and drive down the coast to Derna. Luckily Derna’s in territory controlled by one of the factions more friendly to the U.S. that’s currently engaged in the civil war, and they’ve granted permission for the use of Libyan airspace. Once they’re in Derna they’ll find somewhere to hole up and wait out the day and then infil the compound under the cover of night. It’ll be a simple smash and grab, with minimal hostile contact. Easy, theoretically. Something they’ve done before more times before then Jaz has fingers to count. It’s never been one of their own they’re extracting though, never been Amir.

She doesn’t realize that she’s just been standing and staring down at her go-bag until Dalton puts a light hand on her shoulder. She nearly jumps at the sudden contact, catching herself at the last moment.

“Hey, you good?”

He asks. She nods shortly, shoving her M16 into the duffle with a little more force then necessary.

“I’m fine.”

He looks at her like he doesn’t believe her.

“We won’t make the same mistakes this time round.”

He says, more gently then perhaps she deserves. She stays silent because she doesn’t know how to tell him that she’s not afraid they’re going to make a mistake, she knows they won’t. She’s afraid they won’t make any mistakes and still all they’ll find to bring home is a body. She’s afraid of what they’re going to find. She’s just so tired of funerals. She feels to young to have been too as many as she has, most for people who were to damn young to die. Selfish, maybe, but she’s only human. She swallows her fear though, because fear is not something they can afford right now, not something Amir can afford, and zips up her duffle and turns to Dalton.

“I know.”

She says, and her voice does not shake. Dalton watches her a second longer, eyes searching her face for something. He must find it because he smiles, pale and wan and thin, but real, and squeezes her shoulder.

“Alright then, let’s go bring our guy home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bryan Fouty and Alex Jimenez are two really soldiers who were kidnapped by ISIS/ al queda and killed back in 2007. 
> 
> Also, the end of the quarter is here and finals are kicking my ass so the update next might be late so I apologize in advance!


	7. Chapter Seven

When they walk outside the sky is a blue and clear as it was the day Amir was taken. It’s beautiful, in a way that aches a little inside.

It was bound to happen sooner or later, Preach thinks as they load up their gear into the Humvee. The work they do is dangerous, and they could only go for so long before something like this occurred. Regression to the mean, he supposes. They’re good, dangerously so, but they’re not invincible. Dalton had always told them that, and then Elijah had died to prove it.

Still, he’d never expected it to happen to Amir. Never really expected it to happen to any of them, if he’s honest with himself. That’s the funny thing about this job, no matter how many people he watches go down in the field he never thinks going to be him, his team. There’s an odd inevitability to it that wars with the uncertainty of it all. Sure it’ll happen, but not today or tomorrow or the day after that. Not till they’re watching Elijah go down in Jaz’s arms with a bullet in his chest, not till Amir’s being dragged into a jeep with an AK to his head.

Perhaps he should have expected it would be Amir, out of all of them. There’s something burning in him, something he tries hard to hide. For all his reserved caution Amir never hesitates to throw himself head first into danger. Not reckless, simply rational to a fault, like he has weighed the scales and found his own life lacking. That is the quandary that is Amir; he will fight tooth and nail to save everyone but himself. It’s probably something they should sit down and talk about with him when they get back.

As the Humvee rocks it’s way over the bumpy road to the tarmac where a C-130’s waiting to take them to Libya he closes his eyes and offers up a prayer to what ever god might be listening for his teammate. He doesn’t believe, but Amir does and maybe that counts for something, in the long run. He hopes it does at least.

The plane ride to Libya is as silent as the one back from Tunisia had been. It’s a different kind of silence, though. This one is full of anticipation, tight as razor wire and twice as sharp. Sharp enough that Preach is almost afraid he’ll cut himself on it, if he’s not careful. But Preach is a careful man, so he keeps his hands and his tongue to himself and settles himself back into uncomfortable web seat and let’s the rumble of planes engine lull into something that sits next to peace.

 

* * *

 

After they’re dropped off in a field outside of Tobruk it’s only a few hours drive down the coast to their destination. They quickly scope out a dusty dilapidated building on the outskirts of Derna. It looks like it could have once been apartments or condos but now it’s nothing more then an empty shell, abandoned half-finished when the money ran out most likely. Inside is an eerie ghost town, decorated with white plastic sheeting and scaffolding, tools lying abandoned like the workers have just gone on lunch break and might return any minute. From the dust that’s settled over every surface though it doesn’t look like anybody’s been inside for weeks, not even the grifters have been through. Still, they clear every room just to be sure, Dalton knows better then to trust appearances. The humvee is hidden away under a tarp at the back of the complex. They move quickly, efficiently, but it feels wrong. Dalton feels Amir’s absence like a missing limb. He shakes off the feeling. Amir won’t be missing much longer, not if his team has anything to say about it.

They set up camp on the top floor in the empty shell of what seems to be some sort of rec room. There’s an empty pool table shoved in the corner, green felt grey with dust. McG and Preach drag it to the center of the room. It’s legs leave two trails of clean in the grime covering the floor behind it.

As Preach works to set up a connection with command Dalton wanders over to the nearest window, flicking aside the plastic covering the empty frame, and scanning the road outside. It’s quiet, nothing but sand and dust and empty. He hears footsteps come up behind him and feels McG press something into his hand. He glances down. It’s an MRE bar. He sighs. McG doesn’t let him open his mouth.

“Eat it.” He says quietly “It’s gonna be a long night.”

Dalton swallows his protests, sighing. Turning back to the window he rips the foil packaging open. The heat’s half-melted the bar inside and it’s adhered to the packaging. He pulls the foil away, some of the tacky MRE sticking to his hand in the process. He takes a bite, wipes his hand off on the leg of his fatigues. Below a wind picks up some trash and it dances across the cracked road, bright orange and red against the grey concrete. The MRE is gummy in his mouth and he has to chew for a few minutes, jaw aching. When he swallows he tastes sand on the back of his tongue. Sand gets into everything here.

They do nothing for a few hours, just waiting. McG naps, Jaz paces, Preach sits quietly, eyes closed and arms crossed but breath even. Dalton tries to sleep but finds it won’t come. He wants the sun to set, wants to be on the move, wants his team-all of them-to be home. He can feel his teeth ache with all the things he wants, or maybe that’s just the bar McG made him eat. All he can do is wait, though, so he does.

At a few minutes past one the ExtraTough goes off. Dalton frowns, moving to answer the call. Preach and Jaz follow, Jaz giving McG a light kick in the side as she passes. He startles awake with a noise that would have been funny if Dalton didn’t have the beginnings of a knot in the pit of his stomach. When he answers Patricia’s face is tense and there’s a look in her eyes that Dalton’s learned to recognize as bad news. The knot in his stomach tightens.

“We just picked up intel on the radio. They’re moving Amir. Sometime in the next few hours, we don’t know exactly when.”

She says bluntly. That’s something Dalton’s always appreciated about Patricia, that she always cut straight through the bullshit. No hemming or hawing with her, although right now he’s appreciating it a little less then usual. He swallows, resists the urge to rub at his eyes.

“I thought they were keeping Amir here until further notice?”

He tries to keep his voice steady, professional. He succeeds, mostly. Patricia nods sharply.

“That’s what we thought too. I don’t know what spooked them but according to the intel they’re going to move him through the border to Egypt. There’s a large ISIS compound still active in the Sinai Peninsula. Dalton, if they get him there he’s gone. For good.”

She doesn’t have to say the words, they all know. Silence hangs heavy in the still air and he can feel everyone waiting. Waiting for him.

“Alright,”

He says finally, swallows again.

“Alright, we’ll have to move now.”

McG’s brow furrows,

“Top, that compound’s surrounded by empty desert. They’ll see us coming for miles in the Humvee.”

“I know,” he snaps, “but what are we supposed to do? Just let them take him?”

He regrets it as soon as he sees the hurt that flashes across McG’s face. Preach steps forward, eyes careful.

“No one’s saying that. We all want him back, but McG’s right, we need another plan. We won’t do Amir any good if we’re dead.”

They’re both right, he knows that. He swallows the irritability, reaching up to run a hand through his hair and taking a breath. He needs to get himself together, needs to be better then this. He’s their leader, he needs to step up and lead.

“Okay, new plan.”

He says, running his tongue over his teeth. He regrets eating the MRE now. He can feel it gummy and thick in his mouth, sticking to the roof of his mouth, the sweet sugariness now tasting sour and stale.

“We’ll ditch the Humvee a few klicks out and hump it the rest of the way in, low profile. Jaz, you’ll be on overwatch. Once we get there find the highest ground you can and settle in. Preach, you’re in charge of finding us a ride out of there. McG and I will infil, find Amir and get out. We’ll have to do this quiet and quick.”

It’s a good plan, as good as they’re going to get. It’s not perfect and there’s a lot of ways for this to go very very wrong but they don’t really have any other choices. It feels like they’re backed into a corner, damned if they do and damned if they don’t. But cornered dogs are dangerous ones and they’re not the exception to the rule.

“Sounds good.”

Jaz is the first to speak, voice as resolute and unwavering as always and suddenly Adam is so grateful for her, for them all. Preach nods quietly in agreement. Dalton turns to McG, meets his eyes. There’s no sign of hurt there now, smoothed away like it never was. He smiles crookedly, running one hand through his curly hair.

“Hell, it’s not even the craziest thing we’ve done.”

Dalton manages half a smile, shakes his head a little ruefully.

“No,” he says, “It really isn’t.”

He turns back the ExtraTough where Patricia’s been watching them quietly.

“If we’re clear on your end of things Deputy Director, we’ll move now.”

He says. Patricia nods.

“Go.”

Is all she says, all she has to say. Like she’s let go of the leash that they’ve all been straining against they explode into movement, tense and efficient and filled with an eager nervous energy. The still air is filled with the familiar sound of gunmetal and the soft rasp of heavy canvas against skin. It takes barely ten minutes before they’re packed and ready.

They all stand in front of him, his team, his family, and there is such trust in their eyes that it almost hurts too look at, like trying to look straight at the sun. He knows they’d follow him wherever he leads, follow him off a cliff if he asked them too, and the thought is equal parts awe-inspiring and terrifying.

“Alright,” he says, mouth dry (he tells himself it’s just the desert air) “Let’s move.”

Before he turns to go though he pauses, and everyone pauses with him, just watching. He waits, searching for the words.

“The mission’s changed.”

And god, he’s reminded of a rainy Paris street as he sat in the car and watched Jaz and Amir argue. It was only a few weeks ago but it feels like years.

“I’m not going to lie, this is a risky move and…and there’s a chance, and a good one, that it’s going to go bad fast. If we.... I understand if anyone wants out.”

There’s a moment of silence and then McG snorts, shaking his head.

“Aw come on Top, if you really think any of us is going to stay behind then the hear really must be getting to ya.”

And just like that, the moment’s broken and the knot in Dalton’s chest finally unravels. As they file past him Preach reaches out and squeezes his shoulder, leaves his hand there just a second longer then necessary, warm even through the stiff fabric of his BDU’s. Eventually though it slips away, leaving behind a chill in it’s place.

Dalton takes one last look at the room before he follows his team out. There’s not trace to signal that they were every here apart from the track marks the pool table had left behind it when McG and Preach had moved. Even that though is temporary. Already dust is trickling back into the furrows, eating away at the last marks of their presence.

And Dalton wonders if that isn’t what this job does sometimes. Eats away at the tenderest parts of them till there’s nothing left but dust and decay. Like buildings that were never finished, abandoned to rot under the desert sun. He brushes aside the thought though, because they are people not buildings and there is no dust inside his heart, not yet. He almost smiles. If Amir were here he would laugh at Dalton, pondering the finer points of existence and morality in an abandoned apartment complex in the Libyan desert. He’s not here though, so Dalton will have to laugh at himself until they get him back.

Somebody calls his name from the hallway, sharp and insistent, and he follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shows up a week late with starbucks* sorry for the late update which ended up being a little later then intended! Hope you all and enjoy and thanks for sticking with it!


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look it's me, back from the dead. Just in time for halloween too.

The Humvee creeps its way through the desert, a faint plume of dust rising behind it like a beacon. Jaz grits her teeth, the need for relative stealth warring with the impulse to just tell Preach to floor it. At first they’d followed a paved highway out of Derna and into the desert, the road lined with the crumbling remains of derelict buildings, but eventually the cracked asphalt had been swallowed by sand. The air in the truck is hot and unmoving, so thick it’s almost hard to breath. She’s already damp with sweat under her helmet and the heavy fabric of her BDU’s. She wishes humvee’s had AC, but comfort doesn’t quite factor into the tactical layout of the vehicle.

In the passenger seat Dalton looks tense, the fine muscles of his jaw tight. He sits perfectly still with his arms folded over his chest and his boonie crumpled in his fist. She wants to say something to him, but she’s not sure what or why the urge is there. She wants to tell him it’s going to be all right, that Amir’s going to be alright, but that’s not a promise she can make.

The thought catches in her throat like a fish bone, sharp and insistent and for a moment she feels like she’s choking on it because Amir has to be okay. But he might not be. And even though she’s a soldier and every day they deal in death, somehow she can’t seem to come to terms with that. She can’t come to terms with the fact that they left him behind, left him alone.

It’s just, she’d spent a lot of time trying her hardest not to like Amir. Spent a lot of time being angry with him for no other reason then that he was not Elijah and that was unforgivable (and maybe because she saw her eyes looking back at her from his face and it scared her). She realizes now of course that it wasn’t really anger, but grief, and Amir hadn’t done anything wrong apart from exist. She thinks its unfair now, how much time she had wasted in anger and grief and fear. There’s still so much that could grow between them, so much they could have been. More then teammates, maybe even friends. She’s only realizing now how badly she wants that. She wants to hear about his family and his childhood in Lebanon and his stupid toast that isn’t toast and isn’t it a bitch that you never realize how much you want something until you realize you might not get it.

McG kicks lightly at the side of her boot and she nearly startles at it. She sits back, glaring at him. He smirks back at her, but there’s something gentle to it and she feels her self unclench a little, shoulders loosening. In the rearview mirror Dalton catches her eye, just for a moment, and gives her a little nod and something that might almost be a smile. She takes a deep breath and settles into her seat, swallows past the pain in her throat. There’s a job to do and she’s going to do it, god help her, because she wants Amir, wants all of him. Even the fucked up parts, even the ugly ones.

 

* * *

 

 

The Humvee rolls to a stop, Preach parking the vehicle behind the slight swell of a dune. Dalton barely waits for the wheels to settle before he hops out. The sand shifts and sinks under his boots and he has to catch himself on the window frame. Righting himself he closes the door behind him and adjusts the strap of his M16, making his way towards where the dune bottoms out into a gully. From where he’s standing the opposite bank keeps him hidden but he can see out across the desert for miles. If this op was going as planned they’d still be holed up waiting out the daylight. Instead they’re here, waiting to walk into a tactical nightmare. Dalton’s leading them all right into a disaster waiting to happen. If they mess up here, they’re done for in a permanent way. Do not pass go, do not collect 200 dollars.

Behind him he hears the sound of Jaz and McG moving around behind him, pulling camo netting over the Humvee. He lets them work; he trusts his team to know what to do. Instead he surveys the landscape in front of him, pulling out his canteen and taking a swig of lukewarm water. Everywhere he looks there’s nothing but a seemingly endless ocean of sand and dunes. Everything is still. There’s no breeze, no clouds drifting across the painfully blue sky, not even any lizards skittering across the ground. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to take some of that stillness to heart.

There’s the crunching of footsteps behind him and a then presence at his elbow, quiet and patient. He opens his eyes.

“Y’know,” Preach says conversationally, pausing to spit into the sand by his feet, “we all want to be here. You’re not forcing any of us to follow you.”

Dalton sighs.

“I know that, Preach. And I know you guys would do anything to get him back…but…”

He trails off, not quite sure how to finish. Not sure he wants to say the words.

“But you can’t help but feel like it’s your fault we’re even here in the first place?”

Preach says gently, finishing the sentence for him. It’s always been like that, Preach knowing without Adam having to say. Most of the time he appreciates it, sometimes not so much. He nods, throat tightening. Preach doesn’t turn to look at him, just keeps staring out across the desert, hands tucked into the top of his TAC vest, squinting a little against the sun. He just waits, patient and steadfast, and eventually Dalton finds his voice.

“I’m the team leader. You guys are my responsibility. I gave the order to leave him behind. That’s on me.”

“And what should we have done instead?”

Preach asks, placidly. Dalton shrugs, unsure.

“I could have ignored command, we could have gone after him. I could have tried-”

“And done what? Disobeyed a direct order from a superior? Followed them into a hostile country we had no right to be in? Taken on an entire ISIS compound just the four of us, no back-up no plan?”

He wants to protest, wants to say yes they should have done all those things, should have burned everything to the ground if that’s what it took, but the words die in his throat. Preach finally looks at him, and his eyes are gentle.

“Look, I know it’s not easy to hear but you made the right decision. It was a hard one, and a terrible one to make, but it was the right one. I’m sorry that you had to bear the burden of that choice alone. Amir wouldn’t hold it against you, and neither do we.”

“Preach, what if he’s…” He pauses, voice cracking, and he tells himself it’s just from the desert heat. “What if we’re too late.”

He finishes, keeps his eyes forward. Preach doesn’t say anything for a long time.

  
“Then we’ll figure that out, together. But I have feeling Amir’s a little tougher then you give him credit for, so I wouldn’t worry about that quite yet.”

Dalton lets out a short huff that might have even been a laugh and runs through his beard.

“Yeah, I think you might be right.”

Behind him McG calls out his name expectantly and Dalton turns back towards the group.

“Hey, Preach. Thanks.”

He can’t see Preach’s face but he can hear the smile in his voice when he replies.

“Yeah, no problem.”

With that he heads to where McG and Jaz wait by the now camouflaged Humvee. Fishing in his pack he pulls out the photomap of the area and spreads it out against the side of the Humvee, shaking grains of sand out of the folds. Behind him the rest of the team gather.

“Alright,” he says, tapping a small red sharpie mark, “Intel says the compound should be here, about 30 klicks south of Derna. We followed this road out of the city east for 14 klicks and turned off here.”

He traces the spidery line of the road downward, dragging along the smooth laminated surface.

“After that we drove about 6 klicks due south, which should put us about…here”

His finger comes to rest on point in the desert about halfway between the highway and the compound.

“So, we only have to hump it for about 7 klicks or so.” McG says, eyeing the map. “Easy.”

Jaz snorts lightly and rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, 7 klicks through exposed desert with no cover in broad daylight. Easy.”

Nobody says anything, because it’s true. This went from an easy retrieval to a suicide mission quicker then McG’s pants hit the floor in front of a pretty woman. The situation passed FUBAR a couple of hours ago and is well into completely batshit insane territory. It’s a steaming pile of crap, but they don’t really have a choice about stepping into it.

“Any drones will just wave a big American flag in the sky for the targets so we’ll be going in blind for this one. I don’t have to tell you, stealth is key here, so keep your heads down and your ears open. Key your channels to public, we need to stay in communication. Jaz, you’re on overwatch. Preach is in charge of finding us a way out of there. McG, you’ll infil with me.”

Everyone nods, grim but determined. Dalton swallows, rolls up the map.

“Alright, lets go get our guy back.”

 

* * *

 

McG pauses for a second, hitching his pack higher on his back. It’s heavy, uncomfortably so after a few kilometers under the desert sun and the fabric of his t-shirt under the backpack is damp with sweat and sticking to the skin of his back. Not that he’d take anything out. Truth is, he doesn’t know what to expect when they find Amir so he just packed everything. Morphine, tourniquets, pressure bandages, catheters in every gauge he can think of, infusion kits, and enough IV bags to rehydrate an army. It makes him nervous, the not knowing, and his fingers itch with the urge to do something. He flexes his hand, clenching and unclenching his fist. Behind him Jaz kicks lightly at the back of his boot.

“You all good?”

She questions. He nods.

“Yeah.”

Wiping at his forehead he starts moving again, following a few steps behind Preach. The shifting desert sands cover their footsteps, and like ghosts, like shades, they continue on.

After about another 20 minutes or so of walking they crest a dune and Dalton drops to the ground immediately, signaling the rest of them to do the same. McG goes down face first, feet sliding out from under in him in his hurry. He already knows he’s going to be combing sand out of his beard for weeks after this. Dalton scuttles backwards towards them, M16 dragging a line in the sand behind him.

“Compounds just over the rise. I see at least one patrol around the perimeter, probably more around back.”

“Any good entry points?”

Jaz asks, eager and straining. Top squints against the sun, rubs at his chin.

“There was a window on the south wall, no glass. I say we infil there.”

It makes McG nervous, going in blind like this. He can tell it makes Dalton nervous too. He wishes they had blueprints, air support, time to observe and plan, but they don’t. They’re out of time, out of luck. Dalton continues,

“Preach, I saw a few jeeps sitting out front, they should be our ticket out of here. Jaz, go find the high ground and keep watch. You’re our back-up if something goes wrong.”

Jaz nods, dark eyes serious and bright and fierce, and then she turns and begins to move away from them across the slope of the dune. She disappears around the bend leaving nothing behind but quickly fading footsteps in the sand; McG still feels better knowing they’ll have her sharp eyes watching their back. The M40A5 slung over her shoulder doesn’t hurt either.

Top turns back to him, face serious.

“Ready?”

McG takes a deep breath and nods. They’re leaving this place with Amir or not at all, he knows that much. 


	9. Chapter Nine

Infiltrating proves to be almost suspiciously easy. Or maybe the militants didn’t expect anyone to be stupid enough to try anything in broad daylight, McG muses as he watches Dalton descend to the floor beside him from the windowsill. Either way, they make it inside with out any trouble. The window they used as an infil point dropped them into a long hallway, dim except for a few flickering light bulbs hanging from stripped power cords along the ceiling. Everything looks a little run down and disorganized, like the building was thrown together without much thought. Like hundreds of these complexes that emerged from the desert in the span of only a few months, constructed to house the hundreds of Jihadi fighters which flocked to Syria and Iraq in the early days it was probably built quick and dirty. It’s warm too, air thick and suffocating. When McG brushes against the wall the exposed concrete façade is hot against his wrist from baking in the sun all day and he almost flinches away.

Dalton taps his shoulder lightly then gestures for him to follow as he turns and starts to crouch-walk forward. McG complies, shifting the bulky med pac into a better position on his shoulders. The weight of it is already starting to drag on him, his spine curved awkwardly into a shape it’s really not supposed to be in, but there’s nothing in the bag he’d be willing to leave behind. He hopes Amir’ll be mobile when they find him, it’ll be a pain in the ass if they have to carry him out. The comms crackle in his ear for a second and then Jaz voice cuts through the static, focused and tight.

 “Looks like they have two patrols on rotation around the perimeter. They make the rounds every five minutes, and I see at last four more tangoes gathered at the northeast side of the compound. None of them look spooked though, I don’t think they’re expecting anything.”

Neither of them reply, but McG hears Top key the comms once in acknowledgment. They reach the end of the hall and McG smoothly slips behind Top, one hand reaching for the door handle and the other keeping his M16 level. Top positions himself to the side and then glances at McG holding up three fingers and slowly counting down. Neither of them speak, neither of them has to. At the count of one McG yanks the door open and Top swings through gun raised. A second later there’s a quiet clear and McG slips in behind him.

The door opens up into a cramped room. There’s a small folding table tucked into one corner with a few chairs haphazardly shoved around it. On the table there’s a few cards lying discarded, like someone had been in the middle of a game. A tiny window set high in the wall lets light filter in. Beside the table a worn pair of boots sits discarded, one knocked on its side with the laces spilling out. The whole scene feels eerie and abandoned and it makes McG uncomfortable. A glance at Top tells him he’s feeling the same way. They’ve both seen enough set-ups to recognize one a mile away, and this has all the trappings. He thinks about the fact that they still don’t know who burned Amir, back in Tunisia.

On the far side of the room from where they entered there’s another door, this one cracked open. Top jerks his head toward the door, lips tight. McG nods and follows. This one leads to another hallway, narrower then the first. There are no windows here, and along the right wall facing outwards is a row of ten or so doors. Silently Top reaches out and tries the handle of the first door, there’s a dull rattle as a lock catches. He looks over his shoulder at McG, raises his eyebrows. The only reason to lock a door is to keep something (someone) inside. Hope swells in McG’s chest and he swallows hard. Top reaches into one of the pockets on his vest and pulls out a set of lock picks, slinging his gun over his shoulder. McG moves to take up position behind him, M16 up.

They crawl along the narrow hallway, Dalton leading and McG trailing behind. The first four doors were a bust. There are six more leading off of the hall and no way of knowing which one of them Amir’s behind if he’s even behind any of them at all. It’s like the worlds worst version of Let’s Make a Deal. Behind door number one, 50 grand. Behind door number two: the dead body of your teammate. Sorry, better luck next time pal.

It’s a painstaking process; every time they hit a new room they have to stop, McG covering the hallway while Dalton jimmies open the lock. Most of the time there’s nothing inside, just dust and debris building in the corners. In the seventh one there’s a body lying facedown on the floor. When McG first breaches the room all he sees is a dark head of close-cropped curls. He already knows before he feels for a pulse he won’t find anything. He releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding when he turns the body over and stares into the blank eyes of a stranger. It takes a few minutes for his heart to start beating evenly again after that room.

Finally, after maybe 10 minutes of searching that feel much longer then that they reach the last door in the hall. There’s still been no sign of any movement in the building, not even the sound of voices, and while theoretically McG should be grateful for that it just makes him nervous. Jaz has been silent in their ear as well except to inform them that the patrols have continued and two more men have joined the group to the northeast.

It seems to take forever for Top to pick the lock, the quiet rattling of metal against metal grates in McG’s ears. He keeps his eyes forward, fingers tightening around the barrel of his gun. Finally the scratching stops and there’s the sound of the tumbler clicking open. McG turns quickly as Top reaches up to the door handle, fingers wrapping around the dull metal. They exchange a glance, and McG thinks he can see the desperation in his own eyes reflected back at him. Top pulls the door open and McG slips in.

The room is empty except for a ratty mattress in the far corner. Amir’s laying motionless on top of it, body curled loosely on his side and bound hands blocking McG’s view of his face. He’s alive though; McG can see the gentle rise and fall of his chest. His own breath stutters abruptly. He hears a soft exhale from his right, then a hum as Top taps their comms.

 “We have Amir, repeat, we have Amir.”

McG doesn’t wait for the replies to come, looping the strap of his M16 around his shoulder as he hurries forward. Amir’s still wearing the same clothes as when he was grabbed but they’ve taken his shoes. For some reason that bothers McG. How’s he supposed to walk if he doesn’t have his shoes?

 “Amir, Amir, you awake?”

He whispers when he’s close. Amir shifts slowly but doesn’t respond. His stomach clenches. Not a good sign. Kneeling beside the mattress McG reaches out, carefully rolling Amir onto his back. He complies easily, body moving bonelessly with the gentle pressure of McG’s push. As he rolls, his hands fall away from his face and McG winces. It’s covered in bruises. His lip is split, and blood is drying in arcing loops beneath his nose and a ragged gash above his eyebrow. Some bruises are fresh, but there’s others fading into green and yellow that disappear beneath the stained neckline of his shirt. His eyes flicker open at McG’s touch but they’re blurry and unfocused, pupils dilated so wide his irises look black. Concussion, maybe, or maybe something else. Something worse.

“Hey, Amir, buddy. You with me here?”

He whispers as he pulls his ka-bar from its holster and saws through the rope around Amir’s wrists. The skin underneath is red and raw, possibly infected from the cursory glance McG gives it. Not great, but not a pressing issue, not like this weird haziness.

“McG?”

Amir says finally, the word rasping in his throat. He pauses, swallows, tries again. McG manages a smile. He recognizes him at least, that’s a good start.

“Yeah that’s right. We’re gonna get your dumb ass out of here alright?”

Amir just stares dully up at him, no spark of understanding in his face. McG frowns, concern gnawing at his stomach. Reaching up he runs his hands over Amir’s head, feeling for any bumps or fractures in his skull but finds nothing. Amir flinches slightly when he pokes at the cut in his forehead, but otherwise submits to the hasty examination.

  _“'Ant ... yjb 'an la takun huna…”_

 He manages finally, in that horrible dry tone. McG shakes his head, concern mounting.

 “Hey, hey Amir. I can’t understand you alright. Gotta speak english here man we don’t all know 10 languages.”

McG replies, trying to keep his voice light. His fingers reach down to Amir’s neck to feel for his pulse. It’s fast, bordering on tachycardic if McG had to guess. Not terrible, but he’d like it lower. His skin is warm, even for the desert.

“You hurt anywhere Amir?”

McG asks, fingers still on Amir’s carotid. Amir shakes his head again, one hand coming up to wrap around McG’s wrist. His grip is surprisingly strong. His palm is hot and dry against McG’s skin.

“You can’t be here, none of you can.”

He says weakly, breathing hard. At least it’s English this time. A horrible thought blooms in McG’s mind.

“Hey, what did they give you Amir? Did they give you something?”

 Amir’s grip relaxes, slips from McG’s wrist. He shakes his head, face pinching in confusion.

 “I-I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

 He pauses, then his eyes widen like he’s remembering something important.

 “What day is it?”

 He bites out, voice edged with tension and something else McG can’t put his finger on. Before he can reply Dalton cuts in from his position by the door, eyes still focused on the hallway outside.

“McG, how’s he doing?”

“He’s dehydrated, beat to shit, but he’ll live.”

Dalton nods sharply, risking a glance back at the two of them. His mouth is tight.

 “Is he mobile? We have to get moving.”

 “I can walk.”

Amir says. He sounds more lucid now, more like Amir. Reaching back he starts to push himself to his feet. Or at least he tries too; about halfway his arm falters under him and he starts to tumble backwards. McG reaches out and manages to grab a hold of his collar with one hand and the waist band of his pants with the other, easing him back down to the mattress.

“Woah woah woah, take it slow buddy.”

Amir doesn’t respond, eyes shut and face screwed tight with pain. One hand is pressed to his ribs and he’s breathing like it hurts. McG frowns.

“What’s going on, Amir, talk to me.”

Amir doesn’t respond though. Just keeps panting raggedly, face pale. Reaching down McG gently pulls Amir’s hand away from his stomach and lifts up the hem of his shirt. He can’t bite back the curse that flys to his lips at what he finds. There’s thin but deep stripes of bruising all across Amir’s chest and stomach. He’s been beaten, badly. And repeatedly if the different levels of healed bruises have anything to say. It’s harder to find unmarked skin then not.

“Jesus…”

He breathes. Amir finally opens his eyes, looking wanly up at McG.

“It’s fine. I can walk.”

He repeats, between pants. McG bites his lip hard because maybe he _can_ but he definitely shouldn’t. Who knows what kind of internal damage Amir has in there, let alone any broken or fractured ribs. What he really needs is a bag of morphine, a stretcher, and a helicopter ride to a hospital. Unfortunately they can’t give him any of those things.

“McG,”

Top says tightly from behind him, warning. McG grimaces.

“I know. Let me just get some water into him and then we can go.”

“Two minutes.”

 Is the only reply. Sliding his pack halfway off McG unzips it and pulls out his canteen, unscrewing the lid.

“You need help?”

He asks quietly, holding out the canteen. Amir shakes his head determinedly, reaching out and taking the water in one hand, the other still dug behind him into the mattress to prop himself up. He tries for a second, but his hand is shaking so badly most of the water trickles into his beard and down his shirt instead of ending up in his mouth. Neither of them say anything when McG leans forward and takes the canteen from Amir, one hand on his shoulder. It’s theoretically for support, but there’s a little part of McG that just wants to touch Amir to make sure he’s real and warm and alive and it’s silly but he can’t help himself.

He pulls back reluctantly after a few seconds, screwing the lid back on the canteen and shoving into his bag. Amir’s probably been dehydrated for weeks now and the last thing any of them needs is Amir throwing up everywhere and messing up his insides even more then they already are. He still looks pale and dried out, but there’s not much else McG can do right now. He clenches his teeth. Takes a deep breath.

“Ready to get outta here?”

He asks, trying to keep his tone light. Amir nods sluggishly, moving slowly to get up again. McG shakes his head, hand on Amir’s shoulder pressing him back into the mattress.

“Uh-uh, not gonna try that again. I’m gonna help you up alright?”

Amir nods again. It worries McG that he doesn’t seem to have the energy to talk. A lot worries him. His eyes look hazy again, unfocused and still blown out and when he tilts his head up at McG it seems like he’s looking right through him. Turning around McG sits down on the mattress next to Amir, grabbing his arm and lacing it over his shoulders.

“On the count of three I’m gonna get up okay. Help me out as much as you can but don’t strain anything. One, two, _three._ ”

On three McG pushes upward, pulling Amir with him. Amir bites back a groan but McG can feel him struggle doggedly upwards. It’s a painful awkward process but eventually they’re both standing, Amir draped over McG’s shoulder. Amir's never been a big guy but now he feels like he barely weighs anything at all.

“Alright,” he says tensely, “Ready to go.”

Amir hangs heavy and warms at his side, and McG can't decide if the weight is comforting or frightening. Dalton nods, eyebrows knit into a furrowed line across his forehead as he looks at them (looks at Amir) and lips tight. 

“Preach? How’s our ride looking?”

“Just about ready.”

Is the quiet reply.

“We’ll be heading your way then. Get ready for us. Jaz, hold position until I say so, I don’t trust these guys”

Then turning to McG and Amir,

"Keep low, keep quiet. Amir, let us know if you need to stop." 

Amir doesn't reply, head lolling a little against Mcg's shoulders and eyes at half-mast. McG exchanges a grim look with Top over Amir's curls. Top turns back to the door, one hand reaching to open in. 

"Alright, stay sharp guys we're oscar mike." 


	10. Chapter Ten

They move as quickly as they can through the halls while still keeping quiet. Dalton doesn’t know what’s wrong but he knows the look McG gave him back in the room wasn’t good. Every so often Amir lets out a soft grunt from behind him, pained and low. At first Dalton had looked back to check on him when it happened but he’s stopped now because every time he see’s the lines of pain creased into Amir’s bruised face he starts to get angry all over again and he can’t be angry. Angry means distracted and he can’t afford to be distracted, not right now. There will be a time later for anger and for guilt and for healing, but first he has to do right by his team. Do right by Amir.

They didn’t venture that far into the complex but it feels like forever on the way out. It’s hard enough to keep their noise level low, but McG’s carrying his gear and Amir and that’s slowing them down. It’s frustrating, moving at a snails pace, but it’s not like they have any choice. Every time he looks back it looks less and less like McG’s helping Amir walk and more and more like he’s carrying him. McG doesn’t say a word though, just grits his teeth and hitches Amir further up on his shoulder.

Dalton reaches up to open the door to the room they had passed through earlier when the sound of footsteps approaching echoes down the narrow hallway. He freezes, pulling away from the door and holding a hand up. He hears McG shuffle to a stop behind him. On cue Jaz crackles to life in his ear.

“Top, two tangos split off from the group, headed your way.”

Her voice is tight and edgy. He doesn’t respond.

Ahead the footsteps grow louder, and Dalton can pick out two different gaits approaching. He bites back the curse that flies to his lips. They were so so close. The door on the far-side of the room creaks open and the men enter.

  
“'akhi , 'aetaqid 'anani samiet shyyana bihadhih altariqa”

Says a rough gravelly voice in Arabic.

  
“hal taetaqid 'an ahdaan qad ja' lilsajin?”

  
“rubama , yjb 'an nakun mustaeidiyn.”

There’s the distinct sound of an AK-47 being cocked through the thin wood. Dalton grimaces. He glances behind him, and McG looks at him questioningly. At his side Amir still hangs limply, eyes glazed and distant. The footsteps draw closer. Jaz’s voice asks for confirmation in his ear. He takes a deep breath and makes a decision.

Gesturing for McG to move away he brings his M16 up. McG nods, carefully pulling back with Amir. Dalton shifts slightly, getting into a better position. There’s the sound of a hand on a doorknob, a slight creak as the door begins to open. As soon as Dalton sees dark brown eyes he squeezes the trigger twice, the loud pop of the M16 firing echoing in the small space. Before the man even has the chance to make a sound his corpse is collapsing to the floor, two round holes in his forehead. Behind him the second man starts to bring his AK up, mouth a round ‘oh’ of surprise. Dalton drops him before he has the chance to fire a round. As he falls though his arm clips the small table sitting to the side of the room, upending it with a loud crash that shatters the otherwise quiet air. Dalton swears. In the distance there’s the sounds of shouts.

“Top, what’s going on in there? I heard gunshots and the group on the east side is getting all riled up.”

Jaz asks. He replies, there’s no point in keeping noise discipline now when he just alerted the entire complex to their presence.

“I was sloppy. Preach, we may be coming in hot here.”

“Should I come down for back-up?”

Jaz asks, obviously eager.

“No, stay where you are for right now, keep on overwatch. We’re almost out.”

They abandon stealth for speed, making their way towards the exfil point as fast as Amir will let them. Top moves a few steps ahead, clearing the rooms and hallways as they pass through them. Behind him he can hear McG quietly but urgently cajoling Amir onwards, can hear Amir’s sharp labored breaths, and his stomach clenches.

Even further behind he can hear the distant sounds of shout and running feet, growing quickly louder. His fingers tighten around his gun and he looks forward. The window is just a hallway down, maybe thirty feet.

“Preach, we’re 30 seconds out. Whatever you’re going to do do it now. Jaz, meet us at the exfil point.”

There’s a chorus of assents over the comms.

“Moving.”

Jaz says sharply, and Dalton can hear the sound of shifting sand in the background. A few seconds later there’s a loud rumble and the walls shake, sending little puffs of dust down from the ceiling. Behind him McG curses emphatically.

“Alright, bringing the car around, you guys better be ready.”

Preach says, cool as a cucumber.

“Jesus Preach, what the hell’d you do?”

McG bites out. Top can almost hear the smirk in Preach’s voices when he replies.

“Just gave them a little reminder about vehicle safety.”

Dalton snorts as they reach the window, turning and moving to the side to let McG pass him with Amir. Amir’s looking worse, face white as a sheet and there are fine lines of pain around his mouth and eyes. McG’s looking concerned too, and that more then anything makes him nervous.

“Alright,” McG says, propping Amir against the wall, “This is gonna suck Amir, it’s gonna hurt a lot. Don’t try to help alright, just let us do the work.”

The voices behind them grow louder. Dalton’s jaw tightens and he adjusts his grip on his M16, keeping it trained on the door at the end of the hall.

“I’m going to go through the window first and the Top here is gonna pass you over, okay?”

Amir nods, the tiniest little bob of his head.

“Try not to drop me,”

He says, voice breathy and weak but there’s the hint of a smile playing at his lips. McG laughs, strained but genuine.

“Don’t look at me, it’s butterfingers over here you got to worry about.”

He says, jerking a finger at Dalton as he climbs to his feet. There’s the sound of a door being flung open and loud yelling just down the hall, closer then before, to close.

“Go.”

Dalton says and McG doesn’t have to be told twice, disappearing through the window. As soon as he’s out Dalton drops his gun, letting it swing to the side and turns to Amir, lacing his arms under the smaller mans armpits and heaving. Amir gasps, short and abrupt and pained, before he clamps down on it. Dalton grimaces but he can’t afford to slow down. He levers them both up till they’re standing, Amir sandwiched between him and the wall, head slumped against his shoulder. McG appears on the other side of the window, arms outstretched. Grunting a little with the effort Dalton hikes him farther up till McG can reach through the window and get hold of his shoulders. He can hear the sound of an engine drawing closer from around the corner of the building.

“Jaz, status?”

He barks as McG starts to pull Amir through the window.

“10 seconds out.”

Jaz says, breathless. The door at the end of the hallway bursts open with a bang, and Dalton shoves Amir’s feet through, not looking to see if McG’s got him before spinning, hands reaching for his M16. Barely sighting he lets out a burst, and a man goes down missing half his throat, another with a bullet to the chest. Blood sprays across the wall behind them like some sort of gruesome Pollock painting. He ducks as the insurgents return fire, bullets biting into the concrete above him. Outside he can McG yelling something but it’s drowned out by the sound of gunfire and rapid shouting. He moves to stand, trying to go for the window but has to pull back when a bullet whizzes by his cheek close enough that he can feel the heat of it on his skin. He curses, firing back.

The remaining men retreat back into the room, leaving the bodies of their comrades behind. It’s bad on both sides. Dalton’s trapped in narrow hallway with no cover, but the insurgents are bottle-necked by the doorway making picking them off as they come through easy. Still, there’s lots of them and one of him and numbers are going to win out. At least, if they stick to bullets. Reaching into his vest with one hand he unclips an M67, letting off a few rounds at a rebel who’d gotten brave enough to peak his head around the doorway.

“McG, get ready!”

He shouts through the window, abandoning comms.

“Ready for what? Top?!”

He doesn’t reply, pulling the pin and chucking the grenade down the hallway. It arcs beautifully, rolling through the door with a clatter. There are shouts of alarm but Dalton doesn’t stick around to hear them, springing up and throwing himself through the window. Behind him there’s the low roar of the explosive going off, heat and pressure following close behind. There’s a moment he thinks he’s not going to make it but then hands close around his collar and yank hard, and like a cork out of a bottle he pops through the frame and falls onto McG in a tangle of arms and legs.

 

* * *

  
Jaz hears the explosion before she sees it, feels it in her teeth. Her stomach clenches and she puts on an extra burst of speed, rounding the corner of the complex just in time to watch Top come flying out of a window and into McG, followed by a cloud of dust and debris. They both go down and don’t get up. Cursing she skids to a halt beside them, dropping to her knees hard enough to bruise. Grabbing Top by the back of his TAC vest she pulls hard to roll him off McG and onto his back. He blinks blearily up at her, blue eyes bright against his dusty face.

“Are you okay? Are you hit?”

She tries to keep her voice even as she runs her hands over his body, checking for injuries.

“I’m fine.”

He says, starting to sit up slowly and coughing. Behind him McG’s picking himself off the ground as well. Once she’s satisfied he’s not spurting blood anywhere she sits back on her heels, a little gasp of laughter escaping her lips. He frowns,

“What’s so funny?”

She laughs again, shaking her head.

“You look like a goddamn ghost Top.”

His brow furrows, one hand reaching up to his face. He pulls away fingertips coated in fine grey-white powder and realization dawns. His face and the exposed skin of his neck are covered in concrete dust, presumably courtesy of his close call. He looks like he’s going to say something when McG calls his name short and sharp. Jaz looks over and suddenly she just doesn’t feel like laughing about anything anymore.

McG’s crouched over a prone Amir, one hand on his wrist measuring his pulse and the other digging in his pack for something. Amir’s face is shadowed but even from a distance she can see the bruises and swelling, see the pallor. She swallows hard.

“Where the hell is Preach,”

McG bites out, pulling a pressure bandage out of his pack. As if on cue a jeep screeches around the corner, wheels kicking up plumes of dust. Preach sits in the drivers seat, hands tight on the steering wheel.

“Top, help me get him in,”

McG calls, shoving the bandage in his pocket for later. Top starts to move, glancing back at Jaz as he goes.

“Jaz, cover us.”

She hears him, but she can’t quite tear her eyes from Amir’s slack face, or the way his hands tremble a little as he reaches up to grab at McG’s sleeve as the bigger man pulls him up.

“Jaz!”   
  
Top barks again, and it cuts through the fog. She shakes her head, looks away from her team and towards the complex, rising in a crouch as she follows close behind Top her gun leveled at the still smoking window. Whatever Top had done in there had stayed done. Behind her she can hear Top and McG easing Amir to his feet, voices low and urgent. Her jaw clenches and she breathes heavily through her nose. This isn’t right, none of this is right.

There’s a hand on her elbow and she glances back to see Amir suspended limply between McG and Top, head hanging so all she can see is the top of his dark curls. Top jerks his head towards the idling truck and she moves towards it, keeping the muzzle of her gun trained passed her teammates. They follow, Amir's feet stumbling and dragging more then walking, and she swallows past the bile in her throat as she yanks the back door open a little more violently then necessary.

McG hops in first, scooting to the far side of the seats and swiveling, arms reaching out.

“Give him to me, careful,”

He says, hands reaching out as Dalton shifts Amir off his shoulder and into the truck. As Amir is maneuvered into the truck one of his hands brush against the window of the door Jaz is holding open. It leaves a bloody smear behind. Jaz feels her grip tighten, fingers white knuckled around the doorframe.

“Come on guys, lets get moving. My distraction’ll slow ‘em down but it won’t stop them.”

  
Preach interjects from the front seat, dark eyes watching Amir in the rearview mirror.

“Alright, he’s in, he’s in, I got him.”

McG huffs. Top gets in after Amir, clambering between the seats and dropping into the passengers side by Preach. With a last look back Jaz follows them, pulling the door shut behind her. Preach is off almost before it closes, tires spinning sand up behind them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> akhi , 'aetaqid 'anani samiet shyyana bihadhih altariqa - brother, I think I heard something this way
> 
> hal taetaqid 'an ahdaan qad ja' lilsajin? - do you think someone has come for the prisoner?
> 
> rubama , yjb 'an nakun mustaeidiyn - perhaps, we should be prepared

**Author's Note:**

> I'll try to update this at least once a week, but I'm in school and working right now so we'll see how that goes.


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